


In the Name of the Lion

by StarlightAsteria



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Army Doctor!Jaime, Cersei Lannister and Jaime Lannister Are Not Related, Drama, F/M, Family Drama, Past Cersei Lannister/Jaime Lannister, Romance, War correspondent!Sansa
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:56:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 31,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23445856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarlightAsteria/pseuds/StarlightAsteria
Summary: The King’s Private Secretary never runs. He runs now, takes the closest lift down, down, down, as far as it will go, which isn’t nearly far enough, because there is still the path out to the coves and rock pools in which the King enjoys taking his afternoon constitutional. He dials the Queen’s secretary, but the line is busy, but he gets through to Ser Addam Marbrand, private secretary to the Crown Prince, and explains the situation in quick, clipped sentences. The other man is nearly speechless with shock, but swiftly agrees to begin the lengthy process of getting hold of the Crown Prince, who is currently serving his King and his Country on a six-month tour at Camp Demon as one of the military doctors there.The King’s incredulous, haughty expression when Vylarr deigns interrupt punctures the private secretary’s stomach with lead bullets. Only forty years of professionalism hides the Captain’s ungainly gulp as Tywin Lannister exits the pool, and demands an explanation.When Vylarr has explained to the best of his ability, the King stills.“What the fuck are they playing at?”
Relationships: Jaime Lannister & Joanna Lannister, Jaime Lannister & Tywin Lannister, Jaime Lannister/Sansa Stark, Joanna Lannister/Tywin Lannister, Robb Stark/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 712
Kudos: 513





	1. PROLOGUE: CAMP DEMON

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone!
> 
> I'm gifting this modern!au to my dear friend tm_writes, to thank her for her tireless work helping me with TINTB and my other stories.
> 
> She's also an essential worker, so this little modern au is my way of saying thank you for all that she's doing in these dark, scary times. She's also a really great Jaimsa writer, amongst other fantastic things - so why not go and check out her work? She writes the Lannisters, especially, really well!
> 
> I hope all of you lovely readers are well, that you're keeping safe and healthy!
> 
> Enjoy, and until next time xx

* * *

JAIME LANNISTER

_Camp Demon, somewhere between Volantis and Mantarys, present day_

When he finishes in the operating room, he and the other doctors always follow the same ritual: washing in silence, shrugging back into fatigues, and, depending on whether or not their patient had pulled through, either a commiserating clap to the shoulder or a more cheery handshake. One of the technicians will turn on the radio, another will make a pot of coffee, and the team will allow themselves a two minute breather before rejoining the rest of the field hospital, which for the past year has been upgraded from canvas tents to a series of portacabins. Jaime is still thinking about the number of stitches that had been required to sew up his patient’s leg. Luckily they hadn’t had to amputate, but he doesn’t think the young man will be walking for several weeks at least -

“What?” He asks, suddenly taking note of the way the rest of the team is fixated on him.

“Didn’t you just hear, on the radio, ser?” One of the surgeons, Missandei, replies, raising an eyebrow. He stares blankly. The others are all looking at him like he’s a wild dog.

_We go now to our royal correspondent at Casterly Rock, Eleanor Yronwood. Eleanor, what more can you tell us about the Palace’s reaction to Lady Daenerys and Lord Robb's bombshell announcement, an hour ago now?_

_It appears His Grace the King and Her Grace the Queen received very little warning of this - my sources tell me it was in the region of five or ten minutes warning, no more than that, through the King’s private secretary Captain Vylarr, who had the news from Lord Robb’s private secretary - and our monarch is said to be furious with his goddaughter and his goddaughter’s husband._

_So Lady Daenerys and Lord Robb’s decision to “step back as working royals whilst continuing to collaborate with His Grace the King” - I’m quoting, of course, from the statement they released on social media, came as a shock to the rest of the Royal Family then?_

_That’s right, Marcus. It was a complete shock, and now I - I’m sorry, I’m just being passed a note - right, this is breaking news now; the Royal Physician has been summoned to Casterly Rock, we understand that the Queen has suddenly taken ill -_

Jaime finds his voice. “Turn that off.” He motions abruptly towards the radio, and wrenches the door open. He stalks down the main ward, looking for his ex-Special Forces bodyguard, Bronn. He doesn’t have to look far; the older man is waiting for him on one of the standard issue chairs in the sterile white corridor.

“Thank fuck, Jaime,” Bronn stands. “I’ve had Addam and Vylarr on the satellite comms for the past half hour or so - you need to return home immediately, by order of the King.”

“What the _fuck_ is going on? I heard something on the radio, just now, about Dany and Robb? And my mother, she’s ill?” Jaime snarls.

* * *


	2. CASTERLY ROCK I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> one hour and fifteen minutes earlier, Casterly Rock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone!
> 
> I hope you're all well, staying safe! Thank you all so much for your comments on the previous chapter, your encouragement and enthusiasm means a great deal!
> 
> This next instalment owes a debt to the rather peculiar genre of very dry British political comedy shows. 
> 
> Enjoy, and until next time xx

* * *

_one hour and fifteen minutes earlier, Casterly Rock_

* * *

THE PRIVATE SECRETARY TO THE KING

“Vylarr speaking.”

“Tarly here.”

“I see. How’s Lys? Are we going to have a repeat of Volantis?”

“Well, it’s, not exactly. I’ve a rather - well, it’s a bit awkward. You see, Robb and Daenerys have asked me to relay this message to you so you can relay it to Their Graces the King and Queen.”

“I’m listening,” the seasoned secretary replies ominously, fountain pen poised to take note. “Well, spit it out.”

“They’re - they’re going to release a statement, on social media, announcing their desire to step back whilst collaborating with the King on causes close to their hearts.” Tarly trails off.

“And that’s a direct quote from their statement, I assume?” Vylarr speaks coldly, not waiting for the more junior secretary’s reply before continuing more acerbically. “Of course it is. May I also assume that you advised them against such wording? One does not _collaborate_ with the _King,_ one does their _duty_ to the King.”

“Er - yes - I did mention that, yes.”

Vylarr hears the embarrassed denial in Tarly’s voice, but chooses to ignore it, instead giving the younger man a more graceful way out. “And you were roundly ignored, by the sounds of it.”

“I was, yes.”

“Next time, lad,” Vylarr admonishes, “don’t let yourself be steamrollered.”

“Er, yes, I’ll do my best.”

“And when is this asinine announcement going live? Your Lord and Lady must realise the uproar this will cause? If they think the King will agree to this - to their retirement - in such a disrespectful manner, they’re idiots.”

“Um, in ten minutes.”

Vylarr snaps the nib of his pen, ink spattering everywhere on the wooden desk.

“You’re fucking joking.”

“Er, no,” Tarly mumbles.

“I won’t be able to warn the King in less than ten minutes, you do realise?” Vylarr has been Tywin Lannister’s private secretary since the Great Lion first ascended the throne forty years previously. Vylarr can already see the catastrophe they are barrelling directly towards, and even as he stays on the phone, he is rising from his chair, striding from his office into the labyrinth of corridors that is Casterly Rock. At this time of day,high afternoon, the King will be swimming as he does every day in the saltwater rock pools at the bottom of the cliffs upon which the castle stands. The younger secretary hums in embarrassment through the crackling phone. “Out of my way, gents,” Vylarr orders, his face like thunder enough to send the rest of the household into dreadful skittishness around him. “Right, here’s what I want you to do, Tarly - follow fucking protocol, tell your two miscreants _they_ have to follow protocol as well - and _hold the fuck off_ until I have told the King and the Queen, _and_ I’ve heard from the Crown Prince’s secretary, understood? I’ll call you back once I’ve spoken to the King and Ser Addam.”

“Right, understood, ser.”

“See that you do,” Vylarr snaps, swallowing a snarl as he abruptly ends the call.

The King’s Private Secretary never runs. He runs now, takes the closest lift down, down, down, as far as it will go, which isn’t nearly far enough, because there is still the path out to the coves and rock pools in which the King enjoys taking his afternoon constitutional. He dials the Queen’s secretary, but the line is busy, but he gets through to Ser Addam Marbrand, private secretary to the Crown Prince, and explains the situation in quick, clipped sentences. The other man is nearly speechless with shock, but swiftly agrees to begin the lengthy process of getting hold of the Crown Prince, who is currently serving his King and his Country on a six-month tour at Camp Demon as one of the military doctors there.

The King’s incredulous, haughty expression when Vylarr deigns interrupt punctures the private secretary’s stomach with lead bullets. Only forty years of professionalism hides the Captain’s ungainly gulp as Tywin Lannister exits the pool, and demands an explanation.

When Vylarr has explained to the best of his ability, the King stills.

“What the _fuck_ are they playing at?”

“I could not tell you, Sire.” Vylarr clasps his hands behind his back, squares his shoulders, lifts his chin, and prepares to take the brunt of his King’s bewildered, snarling fury. “I do not know myself.”

“This will break the Queen’s heart,” the King snaps, pacing the sand like the lion he is, all coiled rage and swift movement. “She - she - after Aerys and Rhaella - my wife took Daenerys in and raised her not as Jaime’s godsister but as his younger sister, and this - this is how the girl repays her? Repays her King? By turning her back on all that she has known, all that she has sworn fealty to? I had hoped the stability we provided her might outweigh her parents’… recklessness, shall we call it that. What is the foolish girl doing? My gods…” The King turns sharp emerald eyes upon his secretary. “Does Jaime know?”

“I spoke to Ser Addam on my way down, he was going to get in touch with the Crown Prince, though I do not have an estimate for how long that will take.”

“I will need my son here, in the coming days,” the King replies. “He will not thank me for it, I know, but I will need him here. His days of being an army doctor are over. Send the Royal Flight for him.”

“As you say, Sire,” Vylarr nods, and texts Addam the instruction. The Crown Prince’s private secretary replies pretty instantaneously. “The next two scheduled flights out of Camp Demon are medical planes,” Vylarr says, reading from his phone, “so we can expect the Crown Prince to land at Sunspear Military Hospital. The easiest would be for the Royal Flight to wait for him there.”

“Do it,” the King orders.

Vylarr frowns. “The stopover will also mean he is likely to be the first member of the Royal Family to be seen in public since the announcement. Do we want to make any special provision for that?”

“Hold off until I’ve actually spoken to him. When he’s on the plane, then we can inform the press of his return.”

“Of course, Sire.”

Vylarr’s phone rings. The King gestures impatiently for him to take the call.

“Vylarr speaking,” the secretary says. He listens to the voice on the line in stoic silence, knowing his King has his attention riveted upon him. “I see. Well, you can tell them they can expect to be booked economy class tickets on the next flight out of Lys. No. They can’t. The Royal Flight is currently on its way to the Sunspear Military Hospital, where we expect the Crown Prince to fly into from Camp Demon in the next hours, as soon as Ser Addam can get hold of him - as I understand it he’s currently sewing up injured soldiers’ legs. From SMH the Crown Prince will be flown on the Royal Flight to Casterly Rock, to attend his King and Queen as is his duty. No. We’ll speak later, Tarly.”

“I am not going to like this newest development, am I?” The King demands, emerald eyes blazing.

Vylarr straightens his shoulders. “I’m afraid not, Sire. The Lady Daenerys and the Lord Robb ignored mine and Secretary Tarly’s advice: the announcement has gone out already, Sire.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? Predictions?


	3. CAMP DEMON II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In any other circumstance, Jaime would never dream of cutting his father off. “Dad,” he says informally, desperately, gritting his teeth. “Dad, I’m on my way home now, I’ll be home in a matter of hours. I’m on my way home. And whatever you require of me, my liege, I will do. You have my word.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone!
> 
> Thank you as always for your enthusiasm and encouragement, it means a lot. I hope everyone is having a good weekend. By popular demand, I give you Jaime: enjoy!
> 
> stay safe, stay well, and until next time!
> 
> xx

* * *

JAIME LANNISTER

* * *

_Camp Demon, present day_

He’s reeling as he’s bundled by Bronn out of the field hospital out onto the tarmac. “My things?”

“Already packed, Jaime. Come on.”

Jaime follows blindly, barely noticing the stares around him. The roar of the idling engines as the aeroplane is boarded by medics wheeling two patients up the ramp at a steady jog. He finds refuge in the familiar sights and sounds of medical equipment and jargon around him as, in no time at all, the doors are shut, and then they are off, hurtling down the runway for the six hour flight back to Sunspear. Only one of the patients is conscious, though shivering, pale-faced, her foil emergency blanket wrapped securely around her shoulders. He offers her a wan smile.

Jaime thinks he recognises her, there is something familiar about her, and before he can open his mouth and rather rudely ask for an introduction, she looks worriedly at the other patient, and the swarm of medics working efficiently but urgently on him.

“We were ambushed,” she says quietly. “We were heading out to the front line in the North, up in the mountains. I’ve been doing this for a few years now - but - ” she breaks off, shuddering.

One of the medics interrupts apologetically, brandishing a stethoscope. “I need to check a few things, my lady.”

“Of course,” the lady nods, sitting up gingerly, letting the foil blanket fall to reveal her bulletproof vest emblazoned with the words PRESS and WBC on the front. As she tears off the vest, Jaime suddenly realises who she is.

Lady Sansa Stark. War correspondent extraordinaire, one of the rising stars of the journalistic profession, who had won one of the highest journalism prizes in the country whilst still a student for her plagiarism exposé. And rather sensationally, one of the family members Robb Stark declined to invite to his wedding to Daenerys, three years ago.

What a small world this is, Jaime thinks wryly.

The examination over, the medic leaves, and Jaime frowns thoughtfully. “An ambush wouldn’t normally be grounds for immediate evacuation home,” he says. Evacuation back to Camp Demon, yes. But not out of the country entirely. 

Lady Sansa rubs her face tiredly at that, nodding. “I - apparently I’ve now got a bounty on my head. Five million gold dragons. It’s too dangerous for me to stay, even at Camp Demon.” She laughs a little, a hysterical, disbelieving release of tension. “And yourself, ser?” She raises an elegant eyebrow. “You are neither injured nor on duty, from what I can see. Have you finished your tour?”

Interesting. She doesn’t seem to have recognised him. Given how exhausted she looks, how pale, he isn’t surprised. “Your brother and my godsister are being idiots. My father has recalled me as a matter of urgency, to help him sort things out.” He can see the precise moment she realises who he is and she groans, cheeks reddening in embarrassment.

“I’m so sorry, my Prince,” she says, “I should have realised.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he grins, finding her utterly charming, “you were very close to being captured only a few hours ago, you’re in all likelihood experiencing the mother of all adrenaline rushes, what is a title compared to that?”

“Thank you.” She smiles, shyly. “It seems strange that we haven’t met before, given the link between our respective families.”

“That it does, my Lady,” he drawls, before - fuck, she can’t know what has happened?

She must see something on his face because she -

“What’s happened, my Prince? What could cause Robb to be so great an idiot that the King would recall his Heir as a matter of the greatest urgency?”

Jaime briefly explains what he knows so far, a lump of lead in his stomach.

“Oh my gods,” she replies hoarsely. “He’s not thinking about what this will do, whether to the country, to your family or to mine. And my younger siblings don’t deserve - _fuck - ”_

“Where is the rest of your family now, my Lady? Do they know you’re on your way home?” He asks.

“Only my mother is at Winterfell. My younger brothers are still at boarding school in White Harbor. Arya is on a research project somewhere in the Sothoryian jungle; I very much doubt anyone will get her there; she’s two days sail up the river from the nearest settlement. And it’s protocol for family to be informed only once I’m back on Westerosi soil, in case anything goes wrong in the meantime. I’ll send them a text when we land at Sunspear.”

“I see,” Jaime nods, his mind whirring. “Lady Sansa, would you come with me to Casterly Rock? That way both our families can co-ordinate our responses to this utter fiasco, and you won’t be in danger? I would extend the invitation to your younger brothers and your Lady Mother as well, if she so desired.” He has a very low opinion of Catelyn Stark, principally because everything he has heard about her seems to indicate that she spoilt Robb rotten, though it is not quite as low as his opinion of Daenerys and Robb has become.

“I - you - my mother would never agree,” she stutters eventually, eyes wide, cheeks alluringly pink. “And you honour me with your invitation.”

“It is freely given,” he answers huskily, formally. He holds out his hand. “Your answer, my lady?”

She swallows, hard, but shakily places her hand in his. At her touch he is suddenly dizzy, robbed entirely of breath, and he can only stare in awe at the way her dainty hand fits so perfectly within his. Compulsively, he lifts her hand to his lips, pressing a chaste kiss to her knuckles.

She gasps, and he raises his gaze to look at her. Shock, admiration, warmth, tenderness. Her fingers curl around his, and he revels in her sweet, shy gesture.

He’s never in his life felt the way he does in this moment, not even with - he doesn’t care that they’re on a military aeroplane, that it is loud and that both of them are wearing clothes that have seen better days. The only thing that matters is her dainty hand upon his, and the warmth in her blue eyes, which hold the tenderest expression he has ever seen. He’s not frightened by any of this, strangely. Instead, it all feels entirely natural. 

He kisses her hand again, and then lets go, reluctantly, trailing the pad of his index finger down her palm as he does so, wickedly enjoying her shiver. His hand closes into a fist. All of a sudden, it feels rather empty.

“I’m glad,” he says, clearing his throat.

She doesn’t speak, but her eyes shine and glitter like sunlight dancing upon the water.

Something rather unpleasant occurs to him. Part of his education as Crown Prince meant memorising the archaic succession laws for each great house and region of the country. “I can guess the kind of measures my father the King is likely to want enforced, and I know Daenerys will not willingly agree to them. Robb is the Earl of Winterfell. Correct me if I’m wrong, but my understanding is that he forfeits the title if he lives in exile, in Lys, for example, as the radio has now reported was his and Daenerys’s desire?”

The Lady pales still further. “There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. Robb cannot be the Earl of Winterfell if he does not intend to live there. That is the ancient law of the North. Earl is the more recent creation. The oldest title, the hereditary title that actually means something, is the title of Stark in Winterfell. He cannot be titled thus if he does not live there.”

“Well,” Jaime sighs, “that is going to make things unpleasant.”

“My mother will fight for his claim,” the Lady Sansa warns morosely. “Ever since the death of my father, and before then, even, she has been obsessed with Robb’s birthright for the title.”

Bronn interrupts them with his habitual bluntness, handing Jaime a satellite phone, forcing him to abandon the rather more pleasurable pursuit of gazing at the lady in order to contemplate the hunk of plastic in his hand. Jaime looks around the cabin, and realises he isn’t going to get any privacy at all. Grimly, he takes the handset.

“Father?”

“Jaime.”

He’s never heard his father sound so hoarse, so visibly straining for a measure of control that is fast eluding him. “How is Mama? I heard, on the radio, that she was - that Doctor - ?”

The lovely Lady Sansa and the medics around him are studiously pretending they are deaf, and Jaime is grateful for this small kindness they are doing him.

“Addam and Bronn didn’t get to you in time?”

“No.” Jaime doesn’t know what to think, what to feel. “And Mama?” He repeats, urgently.

There is a moment of silence, thick, suffocating, and then, almost in a whisper - “I don’t know.”

Jaime trembles. “What do you mean?”

“The shock of it - she had a heart - you know how much she… Daenerys has been as a daughter to her… your mother is in the operating theatre now. I’m told the operation has a high chance of success. Nevertheless, I…”

In any other circumstance, Jaime would never dream of cutting his father off. “Dad,” he says informally, desperately, gritting his teeth. “Dad, I’m on my way home now, I’ll be home in a matter of hours. I’m on my way home. And whatever you require of me, my liege, I will do. You have my word.”

“Jaime…”

“Mama will live.” He cannot countenance anything else. His mother _has_ to live. “And I’m on my way home.”

“Thank you, Jaime.” His father clears his throat awkwardly. “When you land at Sunspear Military Hospital, you’ll be the first member of the family to be in public since this infernal announcement. You can expect the press to be there. Do you want to speak to them?”

Jaime doesn’t hesitate. “Yes, I do. I’m a doctor, a soldier, a prince. I know the meaning of duty and fealty, and I think it would serve well for my dear godsister and her husband to be reminded of that.”

“Good. Say whatever you like to them, Jaime. I trust you, and I trust your judgement.”

“Thank you, Father,” Jaime replies, feeling all the considerable weight of the compliment. “Have - have you heard from Dany at all? Do we know why she - this is so sudden, Father.”

“She is refusing to take my calls. So is her husband the Earl of Winterfell,” the King says tightly, but Jaime can hear the carefully concealed hurt in his father’s voice.

“I’ll try and get through to her, but I make no promises,” Jaime answers.

“Good luck,” Tywin Lannister says dryly. “I’d better let you go then.”

“Yes,” Jaime nods, even though his father can’t see the gesture. “Good-bye, Father. Give my love to Mama, tell her I’ll be with you both soon.”

“I shall.”

The line cuts off.

He hands the handset back to Bronn, asking him to get Daenerys on the line if he can, and fights the urge to crumple into his very uncomfortable standard-issue seat. Tears prick hotly behind his eyes. He scrubs at his face, stopping only when he feels the lightest of touches upon his knee. He startles, and the hand is withdrawn.

“Forgive me,” the Lady Sansa whispers, her eyes averted. “I overstepped.”

“No,” Jaime says. “You did not. Indeed you could not. I - thank you, my lady.”

She looks at him then, hesitantly. She bravely offers him her hand, and he takes it, gratefully, inhaling when she places her other hand over his. He leans forward, drawing strength and solace from the connection, from the way she smiles shakily at his touch.

He wants to trace patterns into her skin, with his hands, with his lips. He wants to embrace her and kiss her and wrap himself around her and -

He has grown up with the tale of his parents catching sight of each other on opposite sides of the ballroom, locking eyes, and never looking back. He has grown up, their cherished only son and child, watching the rather wonderful devotion with which the King and Queen treat one another, and he has always wanted that for himself. He is a Lannister, he is the Crown Prince, why should he settle for anything less than what his parents have? Why should he settle for anything less than the greatest love?

Jaime had believed, once before, that he had been so lucky as to find that, only to discover just how mistaken he’d been, in a fashion so excruciatingly spectacular that his parents had agreed to him undertaking multiple tours of duty in his capacity as a surgeon in the Westerosi Army, simply to make sure his - by that point - ex-girlfriend had no means whatsoever of getting hold of him again. He had not wanted the humiliation of a trial in court, nor the public reliving of the trauma inflicted upon him by his ex. He had simply wanted to pretend none of it had ever happened at all.

In between tours, he’d barricaded himself at Casterly Rock, helping his parents as required with the day-to-day running of the country, and limiting his social circle to Bronn, his bodyguard, and his childhood friend Addam, now his private secretary. He’d declined every single society event and gala, preferring to prioritise his charity functions. The less potential for interactions with Miss Cersei Westerling and her ilk, the better.

He swallows. He feels humiliated even thinking the woman’s name. Bronn, Addam… the King and Queen, had all protected him in the aftermath of what had been the tearing to pieces of a relationship in such a violent manner that it had sent him reeling.

This is different. With the Lady Sansa Stark, this is different. Jaime can feel that. He looks into her eyes, blue as the Sunset Sea, and he sees that she feels it too. It is in the touch of her dainty fingers as she clasps his hand, in the blush decorating her cheeks, in the soft smile playing at the corners of her mouth, in the tremor of her eyelashes as she looks at him, in the beating of her pulse in her wrists.

It is in both of them, and it overwhelms them both.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? Predictions?


	4. SUNSPEAR MILITARY HOSPITAL I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One touch of his hand, and the world had irrevocably shifted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone!
> 
> I'm blown away by the reception this has had so far, thank you so much for all your enthusiasm and encouragement, it means a great deal!
> 
> Here's a short Sansa POV for you all, and I can't wait to see what you think of it!
> 
> Enjoy xx

* * *

SANSA STARK

* * *

_en route to Sunspear Military Hospital_

She twists her hands in her foil blanket, reeling. The last however many hours have been - she doesn’t have the words. Ambush, evacuation… meeting the Crown Prince on said evacuation flight and -

Even though she is sitting down, she’s breathless, with - she never could have imagined this. One touch of his hand, and the world had irrevocably shifted. She looks at him and she doesn’t know how she hasn’t fainted. Her blood is humming with delight and she - she should be terrified. She isn’t.

They’ve been speaking quietly throughout the flight, tangling their fingers together as though dancing, every touch a spark in her soul, simultaneously too much and not enough. They talk about Robb, about Daenerys, about the succession crisis now brewing at Winterfell, they brainstorm strategies to manage the situation. He gets on the phone again to his father the King, simply saying that he’s run into Robb’s sister on the flight and that given the circumstances, he has invited her to the Rock, and that therefore she will be mentioned during the press conference, if not speaking herself. She doesn’t want to, but she understands only too well how the press functions, being a member of it herself, albeit in a very specific context. She knows the reporters will be jumping at the chance to get a quote from her. They’re an intelligent group; they’ll very quickly realise what her presence at the Crown Prince’s side entails.

Both of them know it is more than a circumstantial, polite invitation, that he has extended to her. What they cannot express aloud, given their current lack of privacy, their hands say eloquently. But she wants to leave the King and Queen with a positive first impression of her, and a military plane is not the place for that.

The plane touches down at Sunspear Military Hospital, and she turns on her phone, hoping to text her manager at the WBC. There’s already a text waiting for her, and her heart plummets. She thinks she’s about to be sick. With a bounty of five million gold dragons on her head, she’d anticipated not being able to go back to active duty as a reporter in a war zone. But her superiors have apparently decided that even domestic reporting would be too much of a risk, if they had an opening for her, which they do not. She’s been fired. There’s going to be an announcement on the late evening news, she reads, numbly, which will simply state that they thank her for her excellent service, that they will nominate her for another award, and that they wish her the very best in the future as she takes this time to focus on her family and on other personal projects. 

She loses the battle with her tears, burying her face in her hands, her phone slipping uselessly from her grasp, sliding to the floor. There’s an arm around her shoulders, all of a sudden, and she turns into the embrace, hiding her face in his t-shirt.

“What has happened, my lady?” The Crown Prince’s voice is a low velvet, a balm, a shield around her. She begins to sob in earnest, shaking silently. “My lady?” Warm fingers at her nape, and his palm cupping her cheek. She lifts her head to look at him, breathing shakily. He consumes her vision; tanned skin, sharp jawline, straight nose, and the tenderest of looks in his green gaze, and she -

“Just - read - I can’t - gods - ” she stutters out.

He reaches down to pick up her phone, and she watches him anxiously as he reads the text. His jawline hardens, and he embraces her again. “I’m so sorry, my lady,” he murmurs. “What do you wish to do?”

“I’ve no choice,” she replies ashamedly. “And… I am not certain I wish to work with them again if that is how they treat me.”

“It is their loss, my lady,” he says, his gaze flicking down to her lips, before visibly restraining himself, and she finds herself more disappointed than she expects. She wants him. She wants him to kiss her, to hold her, to make the rest of the world fade away around them.

“Flatterer!” She chides him quietly, melting when he grins back.

The plane slows to a halt, and the ramp is opened.

“We’ll let the medics get off first,” the Crown Prince says, shrugging back into his standard issue medical corps jacket, and she nods tiredly, putting her bulletproof vest back on, and picking up her bag. Beyond, she knows, is the royal press pack, waiting avidly upon the tarmac.

The Crown Prince’s security man, whom she has learnt is named Bronn, stands. “Ready?” He asks. “Deep breaths,” he advises.

It’s fascinating for her to watch as the Crown Prince rises in turn, squares his shoulders, and his face settles to something determined. Sansa offers him a smile, pleased when his gaze lights in response.

“Let’s go.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? Predictions?


	5. SUNSPEAR MILITARY HOSPITAL II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime grins raffishly, winking once more at the reporters, giving them the soundbite and the money shot, and the inferences they can take as they please.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone!
> 
> I hope you are all safe and well! Thank you so much for your continued enthusiasm and support for this, it really means a great deal! I am having SO much fun writing this! Updates may slow down until the beginning of May because I have finals exams and essays, just to let you all know. Thank you all, as well, for bearing with me, with my inconsistent updates across my stories, I appreciate it. I'm hoping that after exams things will get less stressful for me and then I'll have more time to devote to writing, but I can't make any promises. 
> 
> Anyway, enjoy!

* * *

JAIME LANNISTER

* * *

_Sunspear military hospital_

“Evening, Ladies, Gents,” he says easily, offering the reporters a wink and a smile. “How are you all? You haven’t been waiting too long, have you?” The evening air is still as stiflingly hot as it was at Camp Demon, even though the sun has long since set. The bright lights accompanying the Royal Press Corps, a group of the country’s major television news broadcasters and newspapers that follow the members of the royal family around on official functions on a rotation system, many of whom Jaime has grown up around and with whom he has a longstanding, friendly rapport, are not so jarring to him. They are equally powerful to the harsh hospital lighting he is all too used to in the operating theatre. “I’ll have to ask you to keep this brief, as the King and Queen require me at the Rock as soon as possible.”

The court correspondents answer him in a chorus of affable nods and hellos, and Jaime is already making a mental note to ask Bronn and Addam to arrange, given the late hour, for refreshments for them, paid for by the private Lannister accounts. They are doing their jobs, after all, and Jaime is a Lannister. Lannisters are gracious hosts, always. He learnt such a thing as a very young child, observing his parents at functions. Whether a picnic, gala, or press conference, there are always refreshments for the press, for example. Umbrellas handed out when it rains, and canopies in the heat of high summer when the dizzying sun is beating down on the reporters’ heads for hours on end. Bottled water, thermoses of hot tea and coffee, sandwiches prepared by the royal kitchens. That doesn’t mean the reporters do not ask Jaime and the rest of the family difficult questions: whether about the budget or new laws or international diplomacy, or scandals caused by various family members, nothing is off-limits.

Jaime is, therefore, expecting them to give him no quarter. But it will be done with the mutual respect and understanding that the journalists are doing their jobs, and that it is part of Jaime’s job as a member of the Royal Family, as Crown Prince, to give the clear, precise answers to the questions asked of him.

“Fire away,” he grins, rubbing his hands together, preparing himself for the barrage of questions.

“Have you heard from the Lady Daenerys, or the Lord Robb, Your Highness?”

“No, I have not,” Jaime answers. “Dany hasn’t picked up my calls. I did not even receive the courtesy of a warning text that they were planning this.”

_That_ stirs interest, as Jaime had known it would. And - he is not about to make things easy for his god-sister and her husband, not after all the chaos they have caused. Not when his Mama is - not when his Father is beside himself with rage and heartbreak. By the gods, he is a _Lannister._

“Are you saying the Lady Daenerys and the Earl of Winterfell did not inform you prior to making their announcement?”

“No, they did not,” Jaime confirms shortly. “I was in the operating theatre at the time, and when I came out I heard on the radio that my mother the Queen had been taken ill as a result of the announcement.”

There is a moment of stunned silence as this revelation is digested. Then, one of the reporters ventures quietly, “Do you have an update for the country on the current health of Her Grace the Queen?”

Jaime swallows harshly. “I can tell you - I can tell you that my mother was, a few hours ago, undergoing heart surgery. The shock of the days events was - well.” Jaime struggles for equanimity, struggles against the fury building in his veins. “I’m told by my father the King that the operation has a good chance of success.”

“Are you angry with your god-sister, ser?”

“Yes,” he blinks, answering honestly. “I - the whole family - we’re all reeling - if - if Mama - if my mother - ” he shies away from the words, gritting his teeth. “Dany and Robb have caused all this chaos and heartbreak and there will be consequences.” He can’t breathe properly. Only the sympathetic presence of the Lady Sansa at his side grounds him. He wants to tangle his fingers in hers, but refrains. He is very lucky that, whilst he had not been able to mention the truth of his connection with her outright to his father, Tywin Lannister had read very easily the intonations of Jaime’s voice, and had replied with sincere expressions of support, and that as a result he will be unsurprised by their closeness when they arrive at the Rock.

“I am at the disposal of my King and Queen. My dearest duty is to be their liegeman. Whatever they require of me as heir to the throne, I will do, they have my word. You, my countrymen and women, have my word.” He clears his throat. He refuses to be embarrassed by the passion of his diatribe. “Hence why I am returning now from Camp Demon,” he continues more evenly.

“Do you know what the King plans to do as regards the Lady Daenerys and Lord Robb?”

“No,” he answers, and then, seeking to lighten the tone, he pursues with a wink and a smirk, a drawl in his voice, “I would never dream of upstaging my father.” It works, because there are amused laughs from the reporters. “Now, I’m certain you’re all very curious as to know why I’m accompanied by one of your own, one of your star war correspondents, the Lady Sansa Stark, who also happens to be the younger sister of the Earl of Winterfell.” He turns to look at her, a smile playing about the corners of his mouth, a question in his gaze, a question she answers with a flicker of her alluring sunset eyes, and he continues to speak. “Quite by chance, we happened to get on to this same flight out of Camp Demon. Fortuitous, no, given current events? We’ll be working together to sort out the whole mess.”

“Are you angry with your brother the Earl, Lady Sansa?” The questions to her are no less direct than they were for him, and Jaime watches proudly as she responds with aplomb, standing tall in her dusty PRESS armoured vest, long red hair tumbling over her shoulders, down her back.

“Yes. But more than that I am worried for my younger brothers, especially Brandon. He’s still at school, and Robb abandoning Winterfell means Bran will now inherit the title. It’s a heavy burden, and one I, as his elder sister, will entirely support him in,” she says quietly, at ease in front of the cameras. She has that journalistic knack for anticipating questions, and for delivering information in a concise manner, he sees, as she continues. “Winterfell will see a contested succession, because Robb can only be the Stark in Winterfell if he lives there. If he and Daenerys decide to live in Lys, he forfeits the title, and it then passes to Brandon. That is the way the Northron inheritance laws work.”

“Could Lord Robb petition the King to change the inheritance laws?”

The Lady Sansa shakes her head. “Such a petition would never be successful. The inheritance laws of Winterfell have been thus for over ten thousand years, now. A Stark in Winterfell holding the title without residing there? Unfathomable! And more than that, deeply, deeply insulting to my family and to the region as a whole. It cannot be done, much less accepted. We Starks have a deep and profound attachment to our land - we know our duty - or at least most of us do, it would seem. A title is not merely a title,” she continues passionately, and Jaime finds himself utterly captivated by her. “It comes with obligations to the land, to the region, to the people, to the castle itself. It comes with duty.”

“Do you anticipate members of your family supporting Lord Robb over your younger brother?”

“Only my mother,” she replies sadly. “Mark my words, this is going to get very ugly and very nasty. I can only hope that by the end of it, you do not think too badly of my family. At least of my younger siblings, who are entirely innocent in this whole debacle.”

“You are innocent in this too, my lady,” Jaime says.

Her eyes snap to his gratefully, and he drowns in her gaze. He wants the two of them alone. He wants to be able to hold her and -

“Do either of you anticipate returning to the war in Essos in the future?”

Jaime blinks, pulled abruptly from his reverie by the repeated question.

The Lady Sansa answers, hiding carefully the hurt he knows is there at the notion of being unable to continue her job as a war correspondent. “No,” she says softly. “The circumstances which precipitated my abrupt extraction from Essos mean I cannot safely return there for the foreseeable future, and for more information I would refer you to the WBC directly.”

“And you, Your Highness?”

“As I said, I am at the disposal of the King and Queen, and they require me here,” he replies. “In any case, as I have already informed my father,” he continues, a touch mischievously, angling himself slightly towards the Lady Sansa again, raising an eyebrow in silent question. He will do nothing without her consent. She blushes, her lips parting, and he inhales deeply. This is good and right and true. Gently, he takes her wrist and raises it to his lips, tasting the fluttering of her pulse, watching the crashing sea in her eyes. “My future is here,” he declares proudly. He will not upstage his parents, but upstaging Dany and her husband? That's another story entirely, and he is astute enough to know that the country will leap onto his romance avidly and as a result is far less likely to regard in a positive light his god-sister's love life. Dany and Robb do not get to be the love story of their generation; that position belongs firmly to him and his lady, in Jaime's opinion. They are, after all, continuing longstanding romantic Lannister tradition, combining as Joanna and Tywin Lannister have done, devotion and duty into one enduring and moving tale. 

That the result of his and the Lady Sansa's words combined means they have sown the seeds for a narrative of both Daenerys and Robb being painted as feckless and duty-shy will please his father to no end, Jaime knows, as it will make the King's work resolving this scandal to his advantage, easier, and that had been the entire point of this endeavour. 

"Are you soulmates?" 

"What do you think?" Jaime grins raffishly, winking once more at the reporters, giving them the soundbite and the money shot, and the inferences they can take as they please. He offers the Lady Sansa his hand, inordinately pleased when she slips her dainty, soft hand in his with a blushing smile. He can't help himself; he raises their clasped hands to his lips again, pressing an ardent, chaste kiss to her knuckles, revelling in the hitch in her breath. 

The cameras flash like fireworks around them, and he's rather moved to hear some of the reporters clapping, genuinely pleased for him and the Lady Sansa.

"Thank you, Ladies and Gents," he smiles. "Now, if you'll excuse us."

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? Predictions?


	6. THE ROYAL FLIGHT I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His green eyes have deepened to the colour of a forest at dusk, and she trembles, with delight, with desire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone!
> 
> I hope you are all well and safe! Thank you as always for your enthusiasm and your support, it means so much!
> 
> Without further ado, I give you our fluffy smitten kittens, Jaime and Sansa!
> 
> Enjoy, and as always I can't wait to see what you all think of this! 
> 
> Until next time xx

* * *

SANSA STARK

* * *

_The royal flight_

The Crown Prince holds her hand reassuringly as the two of them climb the steps up to the Royal Flight. It’s a sleek juggernaut, one of those massive full two-deck affairs, liveried in rich crimson, a proud golden lion rampant on the tail, roaring fiercely into the sky. She’s dazed from his declaration, sparks humming in her veins. She can still feel the ardent, intimate press of his lips on the inside of her wrist. She doesn’t know how she has mustered the energy to walk, much less think.

She’s smiling quietly, softly as she steps inside, greeted with polite efficiency by the crew, and Ser Addam Marbrand, Jaime Lannister’s private secretary and childhood friend. The Crown Prince, her soulmate - by the gods the word, the reality of it, the reality of his presence, is overwhelming - asks to be briefed after they’ve had a chance to shower and eat and refresh themselves.

She must look like a bewildered puppy, she thinks vaguely. The Crown Prince squeezes her hand, glancing down at her in concern. She inhales shakily as he lifts her hand once more to his lips. She’s dizzy, she’s so dizzy, as she looks at him, golden and more than anything she ever dreamed, the light in his green eyes so tender, and she -

His embrace is warm and comforting around her. She can cuddle into him, she can hide, she can ground herself, his scent an anchor for her. She swoons.

“Come, my lady,” he murmurs privately to her, guiding her up the stairs to the upper deck, where, she gathers, the suites are, quiet, lavishly elegant havens: staterooms decorated with a nonchalant decadence, bathrooms akin to spas, dining rooms, working studies. The thought of a shower is the only thing keeping her on her feet.

He hesitates at the door of his suite. “Do you wish for your own, my lady? It’s no trouble at all.”

“No - I - I don’t want to be away from you,” she admits, blushing at her forwardness. It is uncharacteristic of her, but she feels safe with him.

“And nor I, my lady,” he says, delight and reverence in his gaze. He gestures for her to enter first, grinning. She sees quickly that his suite is mostly open plan; dining area to the right upon entering, next to the windows. A study to the left, sofas in the centre, TV hanging on the partition wall which separates the public areas from the private. She likes that the wall doesn’t span the width of the plane, that it keeps the open plan whilst still hiding the bathroom, and she suspects, the bedroom, beyond.A shower will have to wait until after take-off, as will a meal.

“Make yourself comfortable,” he continues, gesturing casually. “Please, my lady, do as you will.”

She looks at him, uncertainly, only to see that he has kicked off his shoes and jacket, dropping them next to his bags by the door. She’s so overwhelmed by everything that has happened. She’s not displeased, not at all, but the reality of it all is suddenly crashing down on her, and she is suddenly scrabbling at her shoes, at her press vest. She wants it all off. She can’t breathe, and she collapses onto one of the white leather sofas.

“Here, my lady, take this,” he says, offering her a blanket, which she takes with shaking hands, curling up kittenishly with it.

“Sansa,” she murmurs, meeting his eyes. “Sansa. Call me Sansa.”

“Then you must call me Jaime, my darling Sansa,” he replies swiftly, sitting down next to her, looking at her - and why can she not stop blushing? She melts against him gratefully, listening to his voice, to the strong, steady beating of his heart underneath her ear.

Her peace is briefly disturbed by the crackling of the intercom, the captain’s voice declaring them ready for takeoff. Jaime - her mind curls deliciously around the sound - gathers her more closely to him and she smiles into his t-shirt. What better than this to be held by him?

* * *

The hot water of the shower revives her. She feels much more herself now that she has washed her hair, washed the grime and dust and war from her skin. The bathroom is the most decadent affair she’s ever seen, all gleaming white marble with gold veins and old gold fixtures. Wrapped in a fluffy white robe, her feet cushioned by slippers, she finds in the bathroom cabinets a whole assortment of moisturisers and lotions, and she avails herself of them gratefully, before blowdrying her hair.

When she steps out into the bedroom she finds, laid upon the bed, one of Jaime’s white shirts for her to slip into, along with beige cashmere palazzo trousers, comfortable and elegant all at once. She’s lucky that as a matter of principle she carries around a spare set of bra and underwear, rolled up at the bottom of her small day bag which she takes with her on assignment.

Whilst she has been taking her shower, Jaime had taken his in the bathroom of the neighbouring suite, and so when she wanders into the open plan sitting-dining room of the suite, her heart stutters in her chest to see him casually sprawled on one of the sofas, tapping swiftly away at a laptop, dressed in a white shirt and royal blue suit trousers. He shuts the lid as soon as he sees her, puts the laptop onto the coffee table in front of him, and stands, extending his hand towards her.

His hand is warm, and she inhales shakily, tangling her small fingers with his. “May I hold you?” He asks.

“Yes, Jaime,” she smiles. Then, more quietly: “please.”

He wraps his arm around her in response, gathering her to him, and she shivers, stepping into him, leaning against his hard frame, hugging his waist, nuzzling her face contentedly into his shirt. The way he sighs into her hair, her neck, the tension and adrenaline fading away from him, moves her deeply, that she can give that to him, that her presence, her embrace, can do that for him, for it is no less than what he does for her.

“My darling, my lady, my Sansa,” he murmurs into her ear, half-incredulous, half-ardently and she melts at the rich velvet of his voice, her head tipping back to look at him. His green eyes have deepened to the colour of a forest at dusk, and she trembles, with delight, with desire. She watches, breathlessly, as his gaze drops to her mouth. She wonders what he tastes like, she wonders how he uses that charming, expressive mouth to kiss. She drags her hands up his back, gliding over his nape and sliding into the golden strands of his hair, laughing mischievously at the way he groans in response, and presses herself more fully against him. “My soulmate,” he continues, cradling her cheek, thumbing her bottom lip, and she cannot breathe with the intimacy of it. He is too close. He is not close enough. He leans his forehead against hers, rubs the tip of his nose against hers, and she smiles.

“My Prince,” she replies softly, earnestly. “Jaime, my Jaime.” She stutters over the syllables of his name, dizzy at the taste of it upon her tongue. “My soulmate.”She reaches up to press a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth, her eyes fluttering shut. When she opens them, she nearly swoons at the way he is looking at her. And then she trembles, tears gathering in the corners of her eyes, as he kisses her forehead, lips lingering tenderly upon her skin.

“Don’t cry, my Sansa,” he says, kissing the salt from her skin, slowly.

“You are so gentle with me,” she breathes, aching as he kisses the tip of her nose.

“Always,” he replies in a fierce murmur. “I will always be thus with you.”

“I feel - as though I have known you all my life,” she stutters. “As though I have been waiting for you my whole life and I - I am so - so - happy - I - this is all rather overwhelming.”

He smiles wryly, stroking her cheek. “And I cannot believe my incredible fortune, my lady, that you should be mine. That I should be yours.” He pauses. “You’re still trembling, my darling Sansa.”

“I - I’ve never - I’ve never dated, never fallen in love before, part of that is because of the demands of my job, partly because I - I’ve wanted a soulmate since I was a little girl. And so I never - ” she breaks off, blushing fiercely, staring, enamoured, at the triangle of skin at his neck exposed by the open collar of his crisp white shirt. “Never kissed anyone before and I - it’s now all happening all at once and I - ”

“My lady, my Sansa,” he soothes her, running his hand up and down her back, caressing her cheek, until her breathing settles again. “My darling - Sansa - it’s alright. I intend to cherish you, to love you, and yes, to marry you if you will have me. But first, I would court you as you deserve.”

The assurance, the affection in his voice reassures her, and she gazes at him, her heart in her eyes, certain down to her bones. He is a good man. He is her soulmate. And as overwhelming as this is, she looks at him, considers him, and she is calm. She has never been more certain about anything in her life. She has just admitted something intensely personal, and his response has been more than what she could ever have anticipated. She feels as if she is in the most wonderful dream, and yet he - his embrace, his warmth, his scent, his presence, his voice - grounds her. He is the only real thing she is touching.

She inhales sharply, gathering her courage. “I may be wrong, of course,” she begins, tentatively impish, becoming more assured as he only gazes steadily at her, his hands upon her back declaring again and again the way he feels about her, about them, “but do not courtships involve kisses?”

He laughs, the sound rich and full and delighted. “Oh, my Sansa,” he drawls, smirking at the way she shivers under his palms, “they involve many, many kisses, if you want them.”

“Please,” she sighs, breathlessly, giddy at the promise of pleasure she sees in his eyes.

He smirks, and leans his forehead against hers once more, and her eyes flutter shut, and then his mouth is on hers, hot and ardent, his lips moving against hers gently, teasingly, and she staggers into him, clinging eagerly to him. He growls when she very shyly and slowly, begins to move her lips in the rhythm he has shown her, and she - she wants to do this forever.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? Predictions?


	7. THE ROYAL FLIGHT II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “This is not, I must say, how I ever imagined going upon a first date with my soulmate.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone!
> 
> Thank you as always for your encouragement and your continued enthusiasm, it means a great deal! I hope you continue enjoying this, and as always I can't wait to hear your thoughts on this chapter!
> 
> I give you more fluffy smitten kitten Jaimsa, with a side of ridiculous Lannister extravagance!
> 
> Enjoy, and until next time xx

* * *

JAIME LANNISTER

* * *

_The royal flight_

“You kiss so sweetly, my Sansa,” he says, relishing her embarrassed, pleased blush at his words. She is soft and warm in his embrace, her form melting against his, and he lifts his right hand from her waist to cup her cheek, feeling the silk of her skin underneath his fingertips, catching her lower lip with his thumb, her quiet gasp sending a pleasurable shiver down his spine. He inhales sharply, the scent of her a balm to him. And then she looks at him with those sunset eyes of hers, and he drowns, willingly. His right hand tightens in the long, bright fall of her hair down her back, and then he is kissing her again, growling at the taste of her lips, her mouth, indulging himself languidly. He has to concentrate to restrain himself. The heady knowledge that she is his soulmate, that she is so earnestly, sweetly responsive, that she is as yet unknown, is an intoxicating brew - but the first time he takes her will not be in an aeroplane. The first time will be in his bed, where they will have the time and privacy she deserves. On this he is determined, resolute, and so, reluctantly, he slows their kiss, until they are exchanging slow, chaste presses.

He feels her smile shyly, happily against his mouth, and he rests his forehead against hers, keeping his eyes shut, sighing with bliss.

And then a loud knock on the door wrenches him from his contemplations, and he swallows down his annoyance at the interruption. He is annoyed still further when the disturbance causes his lovely soulmate to step fluidly away from him and curl herself up primly upon one of the sofas, wrapping herself in a blanket instead of his arms. “Come in,” he calls, attempting to mask his agitation.

It is Ser Addam, followed by staff carrying silver platters, which they set down silently upon the dining table. Jaime’s private secretary has the grace to look abashed as he speaks. “Your meal, sire, my lady.”

“Thank you, Addam,” Jaime says, more genuinely.

And then the mood lightens further as the staff once more disappear, and Addam holds out his arms teasingly. “No hug for me, Jaime? I did ask the chefs to prepare your favourites, as a welcome home present.”

Jaime laughs at that, and strides over to his childhood friend, pulling him into a fierce hug. Addam is his most loyal liegeman, that has been true since they were little boys playing on the beaches and coves of his ancestral home, screaming and running about under the indulgent, watchful eye of their elders. “It’s good to have you back, brother,” Addam says, clapping Jaime on the shoulder, stepping away. “Even under the circumstances.”

Jaime sits down wearily at that, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Yes, well - I - ”

“Eat with your lady, Jaime, then come and find me, and I’ll debrief you both properly,” Addam suggests. “Or rest, take your ease, and come and find me downstairs after your nap, I can wait.”

“I hardly know what time zone I am in, Addam,” Jaime drawls.

“Nor I,” Sansa laughs quietly.

“Thank you, Addam,” Jaime says, and Addam bows, before exiting the suite, shutting the door carefully behind him. “Come, my lady,” Jaime continues, standing, holding his hand out to her, “let’s eat.”

“Please,” Sansa grins, and his heart somersaults in his chest, and he’s suddenly rather grateful for the distraction provided by needing to lift the silver cloches out of the way to reveal the food that has been prepared for them.

His stomach growls, loudly, and his mouth waters at the sight before him. Addam had not been exaggerating when he said Jaime’s favourites had been prepared for them. Fresh crab cakes, grilled until golden and crisp, upon a nest of dark green salad leaves. A bottle of champagne and one of white wine chilled in the ice bucket, along with bottles of water. Pasta in a white wine, garlic, parmesan and pepper sauce, with black truffle to be grated over the top, as liberally as he likes. Pretty lemon tartlets to finish the meal sweetly, with a bottle of dessert wine to wash it all down.

“That is quite a feast,” Sansa murmurs, eyes wide.

He pulls out her chair for her, offers her a flute of champagne, fills their glasses with water, before gesturing to the first course. “May I?” He asks.

“Thank you,” she replies, smiling, and he sets down both of their starters, before seating himself, and lifting his own champagne flute in a toast.

“To you, my lady,” he says sincerely, returning her smile.

They eat, then, their conversation as light and sparkling as the champagne they are drinking, and he tells her the story of how he’d grown up eating this meal.

“With the wine included, as a child?” She grins, raising an eyebrow.

He chuckles. “No. But aside from that, the meal has been unchanged since I was a little boy.”

She tells him of her own childhood as the eldest daughter of the Stark in Winterfell, and the strange tension between the expectations laid upon her and an environment which disdained or dismissed her interests and talents.

“Is that why you became a war correspondent? To escape, somehow?” He asks, appreciating the delicate taste of the crab.

“I’ve never been asked that before,” she replies contemplatively.

“You do not have to answer me,” he hurries to reassure her.

She shakes her head. “I want to. But I am not certain how.”

He looks at her, his heart aching for her. She has made herself small and shy again, but her hands flex suddenly upon her cutlery and she straightens to look at him. When she speaks, her tones are far more confident. “It was dangerous, of course it was, but at the same time… as a woman I could speak to the civilians in a way the male correspondents could not. I was not a threat, not in the way a strange, foreign man with a camera is. That I found fulfilling, that I could tell the stories in a way that was barred to others, that I could shed light upon what was being ignored by other reporters. I have felt… useful,” she confesses. “I never… at Winterfell, I never felt that. I felt frivolous. But I have learnt… there is value in the ordinary stories of every day life. That sometimes survival is not loud rebellion. That the women I have met who live in those war zones… that they are able, still, to create something, even if only a meal or a blanket, instead of destroy - I have found that very moving. That pushed me to keep going.” She looks at him, eyes wide, blushing.

“Don’t apologise for your passion, my darling,” he says. “I find it rather alluring,” he drawls.

She laughs lightly, taking another dainty bite of the creamy, truffle pasta, her eyes fluttering shut and he watches her every gesture and movement, enraptured. Her reply is impish, much to his delight. “This is not, I must say, how I ever imagined going upon a first date with my soulmate.”

“It’s the plane, isn’t it?” He teases. “Rather difficult to woo at thirty-thousand feet.”

“You’re ridiculous!” She exclaims, before continuing more shyly. “No, it’s the borrowed clothes and accommodations. Please don’t mistake me, I am grateful for them. Nevertheless, I…”

“I can understand that.” He allows himself a smirk around the rim of his wine glass as he lifts it to his lips. He rakes his gaze upon her, heatedly, lingering upon the loose russet waves, the contrast with the crisp white shirt she wears, cuffs rolled up.She is exquisite. “Though I must tell you: you have nothing to worry about on that score. You wear my shirts well,” he continues, delighted at the pinking of her cheeks. “Better than I, Sansa.”

“And you charm well, my Prince,” she answers, blue eyes glittering.

“Shall I charm you some more, my Sansa?” He says, grinning. He cannot stop smiling, and it is a heady, intoxicating feeling. She makes him smile, and laugh. She makes him happy. She is his soulmate. How has he been so lucky as this?

“You may charm me forever, Jaime,” she replies tenderly, shyly, and he repeats his question to himself, in awe. How has he been so lucky as this?

He wants her, longs for her, yearns for her, yearns to do things with and to her that he should not make mention of in company. He must content himself with ardent presses of his lips to the back of her hand, to her fingertips, to her palm, to the inside of her wrist.

He is the most fortunate of men, to have the taste of her skin upon his lips, the scent of her seducing him.

He laughs, standing to clear their plates. “May I tempt you with some dessert, my lady?”

“Please,” she says huskily, and he takes a ridiculous amount of joy in the simple, domestic task of preparing two plates, and setting them down on the coffee table in front of the sofas. Sansa looks on with a raised eyebrow, smiling when he holds his hand out to her in what is fast becoming a habitual gesture.

He sighs happily when she slips her small hand in his. “You were too far away from me,” he admits, nuzzling her hair, relishing her laugh in response. “As wonderful an image you make sitting opposite me, I could not hold you at the dinner table as I wished.” He drops a kiss to her clavicle, nosing the collar of her shirt aside.

She makes the most wondrous sound in response, and he gathers her to him, carries her to the sofa, and sits them both down so she is in his lap, both cashmere-clad legs extended out to the side, kneading the cushions slowly. She melts into his frame, sighing contentedly, if shyly, and he drifts a caress down her arm, before pulling the coffee table towards them both.

“You would feed me from your own hand?” She murmurs, eyes bright as she turns her face to look up at his.

“I would,” he agrees lowly, wrapping himself more securely around her.

“Then,” she says, lifting up the dish so it rests upon her own lap, “would this not be easier?”

“Much,” he nods, lifting the first forkful to her lips, paying attention to her every reaction.

She reciprocates, and he groans. He should not have begun such a teasing game,he realises belatedly, not when he wants her flush against him, not when he desires his hands under the loose material of her shirt, mapping the warm skin of her back, not when he wants one hand fisted in her hair and the other caressing her arse and her lips opening sweetly under his.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? Predictions?


	8. THE ROYAL FLIGHT III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Jaime,” she chokes out, struggling to understand. “Jaime.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone!
> 
> Thank you as always for all your enthusiasm and encouragement, it really means a great deal! This is a bit of a shorter instalment, but I hope you like it nonetheless. 
> 
> Enjoy, and until next time xx

* * *

SANSA STARK

* * *

_upon the Royal Flight_

A dull, shuddering rumble jolts her violently from her sleep and she looks wildly around the cabin, her heart thundering in her chest. Where’s her vest, she’s not wearing her vest, and her helmet, where is her helmet? She takes it with her everywhere and she can’t find it. And her boots, she needs her boots too, and her satellite phone, and -

“It’s alright, my darling,” she hears vaguely, the sound soothing the nauseating pounding in her ears. “It’s alright. We’ve landed, that’s all. You’re safe, my darling.”

A hand comes to rest gently over hers, and she stares blankly down at her fingers twisting in the sheets, and the larger hand that stills them, preventing her from injuring herself. The sheets are not the scratchy cotton of her hotel in Mantarys, nor the Camp Demon standard issue. The sheets are silk-soft underneath her fingertips, and she blinks, struggling to breathe properly.

“Breathe, my darling, you’re safe.” That wonderful voice again, rich and tender. She knows that voice; it makes something warm and vulnerable and perfect unfurl like a flower in her chest.

“Jaime,” she chokes out, struggling to understand. “Jaime.”

She’s not in a war zone, and a bomb has not just gone off. She’s on the Royal Flight, with her soulmate. She’s safe. The realisation crashes through her like a wave, dazing her, and she collapses into Jaime’s arms, trembling, her teeth chattering. She clings to him, burying her face in his neck, trying to make herself as small as possible, and as his arms wind themselves around her in a solid embrace she bites her tongue fiercely to avoid bursting into tears.

The sudden crackle of the pilot over the intercom welcoming them to Lannisport makes her jump in her soulmate’s arms once more, and she apologises, her cheeks burning in mortification. He is undaunted by this, only kissing her hair gently, rubbing his hands up and down her arms to soothe her. Her palm comes to rest upon his chest, feeling the steady beating of his heart beneath the soft material of his t-shirt, and only then does the terror flooding her begin to recede.

“Forgive me,” she whispers, shattered.

His reply is instant, and fierce. “You have nothing for which to apologise, my Sansa.”

Her brow furrows, and she grasps inelegantly for the words. They are thick and ungainly upon her tongue. “Still, I - I am -”

His hand comes to cradle her cheek, and she lifts her face to his, scanning his green gaze desperately. The sympathy, the - love - she sees there is overwhelming. “You have nothing for which to apologise,” he repeats firmly. “I promise you, my Sansa.”

Eventually she nods, shyly, curling herself up more closely in his arms, still too dizzy to speak.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? Predictions?


	9. LANNISPORT I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What are we looking at, Addam?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Thank you as always for your enthusiasm and support, it means a great deal to me!
> 
> I hope everyone is staying safe and well.
> 
> Enjoy this latest small instalment, and I can't wait to see what you all think of it!
> 
> Until next time xx

* * *

JAIME LANNISTER

* * *

_Lannisport Airport_

“What are we looking at, Addam?” Jaime asks once they are all settled in the car, on their way from the airport to the Rock proper. The tarmac had basically been deserted; only the lone press corp cameraman had been there to capture their arrival, and Jaime is grateful for the lack of press conference. He has no doubt he will be giving them later in the day, but for now all he wants is to get to the Rock. He wants to see his parents, and then he wants to curl up in his own bed with his soulmate to sleep off the exhaustion caused by the past twenty-four hours. He can barely believe that just the day before he’d been preparing for his normal shift in the military hospital operating theatre at Camp Demon, unknowing of all the chaos about to implode his routine and career. It feels like a lifetime has passed.

His private secretary turns around in the front passenger seat to grimace back at him. “Tarly’s gone silent, which is never a good sign. Robb and Daenerys caught the next flight out of Lys back to the Rock - I would say they’re a good seven hours behind you.”

“And the King and Queen?” Jaime asks, swallowing down his agitation. Sansa beside him slips her hand in his, squeezing gently, and her touch soothes him. She is still pale, and she’d been embarrassed to react in such a way to the plane landing, but he understands only too well how she feels. By the gods does he understand. And he hopes he’s managed to reassure her enough that he does not think any less of her, that her reaction is completely understandable given what her line of work has thus far entailed. It is nothing for her to be ashamed of. When they have the time and privacy to do so he will ask her how she has managed it so far, and he hopes to talk about things that have helped him, in the hopes that they might help her as well. His soulmate is quiet, leaning her head against the headrest, but her expression is alert nonetheless, and he admires the display of fortitude that has doubtless stood her in very good stead during her time as a war correspondent.

“The King has request both of you join him and the Queen for an early breakfast,” Addam answers, reading from his phone. Jaime all but collapses with relief. If his parents are having breakfast as is their habit, it means his mother is out of danger.

“I should not wish to intrude upon Their Majesties’ reunion with their beloved only child, Ser Addam, especially at such a delicate time,” Sansa says, and Jaime looks at her, his heart warming at her consideration of his family. It is, he is fast discovering, part of what makes his soulmate so precious, and, for what must already be the thousandth time, he can barely believe his luck that she should be his.

“It would not be an intrusion, darling,” Jaime assures her. “You have my word.”

The look in her sunset eyes brightens from something tentative to entirely trusting, and Jaime can barely speak as she lifts his hand to her lips and presses a chaste, delicate kiss to his knuckles, before saying softly, “You honour me.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Jaime and Sansa at Casterly Rock, with the King and Queen


	10. CASTERLY ROCK I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He wants her to like his ancestral home. He wants her to be comfortable here, to be able to meander through the gardens and the halls and feel as though she belongs. She is his soulmate, and since he met her he has wanted her here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone!
> 
> Thank you as always for your comments and support and enthusiasm for this story, it really does mean a great deal. I do hope you're all still safe and well in these trying times. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this latest instalment and do let me know what you think of it!
> 
> Until next time xx

* * *

JAIME LANNISTER

* * *

_Casterly Rock_

He watches, avidly, Sansa’s expression as they are driven into the Rock proper, through courtyard after courtyard, ascending in the shadow of still-formidable curtain walls, the honey-coloured stone warmed by the early morning sunlight. He wants her to like his ancestral home. He wants her to be comfortable here, to be able to meander through the gardens and the halls and feel as though she belongs. She is his soulmate, and since he met her he has wanted her here. He has wanted to see her dancing in the ballroom, taking breakfast in the orangerie, lounging tranquilly upon the shaded terraces. And so when the trepidation and wonder in her sunset eyes gives way to something softer, something more intimate, it moves him deeply.

Whilst it is her right to be welcomed as his soulmate, and indeed as the eldest daughter of one of the Ancient Houses, by the entirety of the household standing upon the palace steps, he is grateful that when only the King’s Private Secretary comes into view, sharply silhouetted against the windows, that Sansa only smiles at him.

“I don’t mind, Jaime. Given the circumstances I should have felt ill at ease if the entire household had been waiting to greet me.” She is as generous in this as she is in everything else, he realises, humbled. “I would never wish to keep their Graces waiting for me, much less at such a juncture.”

He kisses her wrist, lips lingering upon the stutter of her pulse, his gesture conveying all that he cannot say. The backseat of a four-by-four is not the place for the declarations he wishes to make.

Casterly Rock is an ancient fortress, thousands upon thousands of years old, though modernised intermittently within that time frame. Some two hundred years ago in what had been up until that point the gargantuan final courtyard, a newer palace was built. Connected to the existing structure, of course, wrapping itselfsnuggly around the Golden Hall, but containing far more and larger glimmering windows than the older castle. The castle and the many, many levels of halls and storerooms and courtyards and glasshouses carved deep into the mountain are still used, of course, though not necessarily by the family, but instead by the various different governmental and ministerial departments which his father had insisted at the beginning of his reign move from the Red Keep in King’s Landing to the Rock.

The Captain Vylarr, after brief, scrupulously polite introductions, takes him and Sansa, Addam following them, to the King and Queen’s private apartments, in a grand, secluded part of the palace.

A knock, and then the King’s powerful voice bidding them to enter, and the doors are opened soundlessly by the footmen. Jaime does as he is told, all the while scanning his father’s face for any sign - anything at all that might tell him what he and Sansa are walking into.

“Thank you, Vylarr, Addam,” Tywin Lannister nods. Both private secretaries bow, and retreat with customary discretion. And then the stiff set of the King’s shoulders eases, and with powerful strides he moves towards his son.

“Your Grace,” Jaime says, bowing properly, swallowing. He has missed his father. He misses his parents, on every tour of duty he undertakes to Camp Demon. Phone calls and letters are better than nothing but they are not enough. They cannot substitute adequately for the utter peace and safety he feels, and has always felt since he was a young child, when he is within these halls, with his parents. He knows, instinctively, that within the walls of the Rock nothing can hurt him. He is not naive, he knows that the King and Queen are not infallible; and yet to him they yet remain almost as gods to him, powerful, larger than life, to be revered and sworn fealty to wholeheartedly.

And so to see his father in his customary tailoring despite the grimly early hour, to hear his voice, to feel upon his cheek his father’s calloused hand, it assuages some of Jaime’s panic. “Jaime,” Tywin Lannister says, a wealth of feeling in the word.

“And may I have an introduction to the wonderful creature accompanying you?” His father is lighter now, something amused and pleased in those sharp green eyes, and it is with unmitigated pleasure that Jaime does so, turning towards Sansa with a broad grin upon his face, tangling his fingers with hers.

“Father, may I introduce to you the Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell, my soulmate.”

She is nervous, Jaime can tell, but she acquits herself well. She curtseys, deeply, dipping her head, her voice assured as she speaks the proper words of salutation and waits for the King to bid her to rise. Warmth spreads in Jaime’s chest, when instead of merely nodding his acknowledgement, Tywin Lannister slips a gentle grip around Sansa’s elbows, supporting her out of the curtsey.

Jaime cannot help but compare his father’s reaction to being introduced to Sansa, and his rather more sardonic and reserved greeting of Jaime’s previous - and ultimately disastrous - relationship. More than amazed, Jaime is entirely astonished, his mind spinning when his father pursues.

“You are most welcome to the family, my dear,” the King continues warmly, kissing Sansa chastely on each cheek, before stepping back.

Jaime happily wraps an arm around Sansa’s waist, supporting her. She is still tired, he knows. But she is blushing, shyly thanking his father, expressing her hope that she will do them proud.

“Come, Jaime, Sansa, this way.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? Likes? Dislikes? Predictions?


	11. CASTERLY ROCK II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Mama,” he gasps, rushing forwards, sinking to his knees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone!
> 
> Thank you so much for your continued enthusiasm and support for this little story, it really means so much! I'm having so much fun writing this. I can't wait to see what you all think of this next chapter!
> 
> Enjoy, and until next time!

* * *

JAIME LANNISTER

* * *

_Casterly Rock_

He leads his soulmate gently through the suite to his parents’ private dining room, relishing beneath his palm the warmth of her at his side, and he is glad of it when the sight of his mother stops him painfully in his tracks. 

The Queen is resting upon a chaise longue, pale against the pillows supporting her. There is an IV drip next to her, and Jaime is suddenly lightheaded.

“Mama,” he gasps, rushing forwards, sinking to his knees.

“My beloved boy,” Joanna Lannister smiles. “All will be well, Jaime.”

He fights past the instinctive panic and scans his gaze over her, his surgeon’s instincts kicking in. He wants to speak to the doctors who treated her, to understand for himself exactly what happened. There is a tightness to her voice that Jaime mislikes intensely. Ever has his mother’s voice been a soothing constant, just as his father’s presence, strong and powerful, has always made him feel safe.

“You don’t sound yourself, Mama,” Jaime fumbles. “Promise me. Don’t hide anything from the doctors or Father, just to spare us. Even if you think it’s inconsequential. Heart surgery is not to be taken lightly. Please, Mama.”

His mother cards her hands through his hair. “I promise, darling boy.”

A weight lifts off his shoulders at his mother’s words. Joanna Lannister is not a liar.

“And now, Jaime, your manners have lapsed long enough,” the Queen continues warmly, a laughing sparkle in her gaze. “I believe you have someone to introduce to me?”

“Yes, I - ” Jaime stutters, embarrassed, getting to his feet hurriedly. He holds out his hand, which Sansa takes gratefully. He shudders out a breath. He had not meant to make his soulmate feel awkward. He collects himself and introduces her as she deserves to be introduced.

As with the King, Sansa sinks into a deep curtsey for the Queen, holding the posture until Joanna Lannister indicates that she may rise.

“Now, sit, and have some breakfast,” his mother orders. The room has been reconfigured to accommodate the chaise longue, into a more informal arrangement. Pastries and coffee and tea are spread out upon a low coffee table, and Jaime sinks happily onto one of the sofas, Sansa sitting next to him, and the King on the sofa opposite them. “Our people tell me, dear girl,” Joanna Lannister continues, “that you are particularly fond of lemon cakes, so I asked our pastry chef to make some.”

Sansa blushes, taking one from the platter the King offers her. “Thank you, Your Graces, for the honour.”

And thus, they are a happy quartet as they eat. The King and Queen ask Sansa about her time as a war correspondent, and Jaime basks in the warmth of being with his loved ones and seeing them get on so well.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? Predictions?


	12. CASTERLY ROCK III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Well, sit down, and let’s watch this farce, shall we?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Welcome to the next instalment! Thank you as always for your words of enthusiasm and support, they mean a great deal. I intend to catch up on replies as I go - it's been an utterly crazy few weeks for me. 
> 
> A word of warning: this chapter takes a very sudden and angsty turn, though I think an unfortunately believable one. It includes mention of past domestic abuse. 
> 
> Do let me know what you think of this, and until next time xx

* * *

SANSA STARK

* * *

_Casterly Rock_

She had not thought to feel so at ease, so quickly, but she is rather elated at the warmth Jaime’s parents, and her monarchs, have shown her. Sansa responds to this by coming out of her shell, telling entertaining anecdotes about her siblings, and more memorable ones about her time as a war correspondent. It helps, too, that Jaime is visibly at home, visibly holding his parents both in very high and affectionate regard. She is certain she has her heart in her eyes for all to see as she looks at her soulmate; but she finds she does not much care. She feels safe with him, and as she watches him with his family; the careful way he pours his mother’s tea, the way he grins easily and widely at his father, she knows how fine a man he is.

The three Lannisters are so warm, though they might be more quiet and reserved in public, she thinks, watching avidly, her heart aching. So that is what respect for one’s family looks like. She loves her parents, but by the gods neither Catelyn nor Ned made things easy; spoiling Robb, piling the pressure on her and ignoring her in turn… she has always been the quiet child, the good child - if not an afterthought then the child they can push and push and push.

Jaime has not mocked her quietness; instead, he allows her the space to be who she desires to be - and never in her life has she felt so seen as she has been over the past day. Is this how it is for everyone? If they are so lucky as to meet their soulmates?

She loves him, she thinks, elated, watching him laugh at something the King has just drawled.

Eventually, tea and pastries finished, they turn their attention to less pleasant conversation. “Mama, you must not blame yourself for any of this. Dany is unsatisfied; she wishes to have more than is her due - and that is not your fault,” Jaime says firmly. “Any position she has in this family is by your grace alone, it is not hers by right, and she would do well to remember that."

Joanna Lannister’s heartbreak is evident. “She is my goddaughter; I wanted to do the best I could for her, and it was not enough.”

“Beloved, remember what the doctors have said,” Jaime’s father interjects. The formal, chivalric way the King addresses his wife makes Sansa’s romantic heart swoon. 

The Queen huffs good-naturedly. For all her warm, jovial nature, Sansa sees, Joanna Lannister takes her husband’s concern seriously. “I know. I must not strain myself.”

A knock on the door makes the laughter cease.

“Enter!” Calls the King, rising powerfully from his seat. “What is it?”

Three people enter; two she recognises as the King and Jaime’s private secretaries, and the third, a lady in a smart and sober navy sheath dress, whom Sansa deduces must be the Queen’s private secretary. Glancing at Jaime, at the King and Queen, Sansa instantly grasps the severity of the situation.

“Daenerys and Robb have landed in Sunspear, they’re hosting an impromptu press conference,” the Captain Vylarr explains.

“Despite my explicit instructions that they were not to speak to the press,” the King growls, and Sansa shivers inwardly at the menace in his voice. “Well, sit down, and let’s watch this farce, shall we?”

The King’s Private Secretary turns on the TV.

About thirty seconds in, Daenerys is asked what she thinks of the way the Crown Prince has flown back to Casterly Rock, so quick to answer his King’s summons. With a grin that has more than a bit of malice in it, that belies the sickly-sweet tones in which she speaks, she says, “Well, I’m unsurprised. He’s too much of a coward to have an original thought in his head.”

The Queen growls, half-outrage, half-hurt. The King has stilled entirely, but for flashing eyes and a clenched jaw.

“In what way?” The reporter pursues, sensing the scoop in the same way Sansa suddenly feels her stomach pooling with lead. Beside her, Jaime is wide-eyed with bewildered horror. 

“He showed that well enough when he let his ex-girlfriend abuse him.”

Sansa has never felt such unadulterated rage and hatred as she does in that moment. Vengeance burns in her throat, and Jaime - he’s trembling beside her, turning inward, visibly reeling. She lowers herself to kneel on the carpet, and she gently places her hands on her knees.

“Jaime,” she says urgently. He will not look at her. Vaguely, she senses the King and the private secretaries launching themselves into furious damage control. The TV is quickly turned down, but not off, so they know precisely the extent of what they are dealing with.

“Jaime,” she says again, her heart breaking as she looks at the man she loves. She cannot imagine the depths of the humiliation he must feel. “My Jaime, look at me.” He does, and she wants to burst into tears herself at the expression upon his face. “May I?” She says, gesturing with her hands towards him.

He looks at her blankly. “May you?”

“May I touch you?”

“You - you still wish to?” He stutters incredulously. “Even after - after - ”

“Yes,” she replies emphatically. “My Jaime - nothing anyone says can change that. My Jaime, your Sansa. You are my _soul._ My _heart._ My _life._ ”

He makes a wounded, disbelieving sound, but his trembling hands clutch at hers, and she leans forward to kiss his knuckles.He collapses then, hunched over her, sliding to the floor with her, embracing her fiercely. He buries his face in her collarbone, shuddering. She can feel the frenzied beating of his heart against hers, and she tangles herself more tightly with him, rubbing her hands up and down his back, whispering in his ear again and again, _my Jaime. My Jaime._

He clings to her as though she is his anchor, as though she is the only thing holding him together.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? Predictions?


	13. CASTERLY ROCK IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What the fucking hell was that, Tarly?” The Captain Vylarr snaps down the phone to his beleaguered counterpart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Thank you so much for all your enthusiasm and support, I really appreciate it, and I can't wait to see what you think of this next chapter!
> 
> Enjoy and until next time xx

* * *

CAPTAIN VYLARR

* * *

_Casterly Rock_

“What the _fucking hell_ was that, Tarly?” The Captain Vylarr snaps down the phone to his beleaguered counterpart. “Do you understand what your charge has done?”

Poor Samwell Tarly mutters some pitiful reply.

“I must believe nothing, Tarly,” the King’s Private Secretary answers acidly. “In the name of our King, take away their phones. Now. Do it. I don’t care if it makes a scene, what do you think Daenerys has already done if not made a massive scene? I can see you on the TV screen, Tarly. You will do it, and you will do it _now,”_ the Captain continues, watching the other man’s shuffle closer to the idiots he is assigned to in his typically apologetic fashion. “I don’t care what silly excuse you come up with, take away their phones and get them away from the cameras.” Vylarr watches, jaw clenched as the younger secretary executes his task. “Good. Now get them to their next flight. The lot of you will be met at Lannisport. I tell you again, Their Graces the King and Queen are most seriously displeased. The Lady Daenerys and Lord Robb will have _much_ to answer for when they get to the Rock.”

Vylarr ends the call and turns his attention back to his monarchs and his colleagues. Ser Addam is kneeling next to the shell-shocked Crown Prince. The Queen is pale, but speaking quietly to her son and the Lady Sansa. His King has his back turned to the rest of the room, staring out of the window.

“Sire?” The Captain ventures.

The King turns to face him. “I have no words for this.”

* * *

“I do not - ” the Crown Prince begins. “I do not wish to speak to the specifics of what happened to me. It is a deeply private part of my life. Nevertheless, could we make sure the NDA still holds? Tighten it if necessary?”

“That is the least we will do, Jaime,” the King answers.

“Thank you, Father. I do understand that I cannot prevent questions being asked.”

“We can, if you want, Jaime,” the Queen disagrees. “We can have an injunction.”

“If I may?” The Lady Sansa ventures, only continuing when the King gives her leave to do so. “An injunction would be as a red flag to a bull. You would only be encouraging journalists - both the reputable and the less so - to start digging, and then you would not be able to control either what was found, or the manner of its public release.”

“Then what do we do?” The Queen frowns.

“I could do a keynote,” the Crown Prince suggests. “That way I control what is said about my life, not Daenerys, not anyone else.”

“You should not have to in the first place!” The Queen exclaims.

“I know, Mama. But the control has been wrested from me. This way, I take some of it back. I’m not a coward.” His words are carefully clipped.

“Very well,” the King declares. “You will do a keynote - a televised address, nothing less. You are a Lannister, the Crown Prince and my son.”

“Thank you, Father. Where would be suitable?”

A faint smirk flits across the King’s face. “The Golden Hall.”

“You’re joking,” the Prince sputters.

“Use the authority bestowed upon you, Jaime,” the King explains. “Do I wish your first individual televised address were in different circumstances? Of course I do. But all the more reason to turn this to your advantage. Do not content yourself with reflecting on your past. Use this opportunity to declare what kind of King you shall be, to shape our society in the way you desire.”

The Crown Prince stares at his father in shock, before bowing deeply. His voice is thickened with emotion. “You honour me, Sire. You will not regret it.”

“I know I will not,” the King replies firmly, proudly, before the planes of his face harden. “As for that miscreant and her husband… the gloves come off. Captain, you will draw up the papers with which you will present them when they arrive. You will make them sign them. They will be stripped of all titles, estates, patronages, all monetary allowances, staff, and security detail. Anything they want they will have to pay for themselves, after all. That is the definition of independence, is it not?” The King smirks darkly. “They will also sign comprehensive NDA’s, and they will be barred from making any kind of political statement in the future. Journalists will not be allowed to ask them anything related to this family or this country, either political or personal.”

“You will have the papers upon your desk by noon, Sire,” the Captain Vylarr bows.

“Excellent,” the King nods, a feral glint in his green eyes. “Furthermore, the Crown will formally and publicly endorse Lord Brandon Stark as the Earl and Stark in Winterfell. You will give the Lady Sansa whatever legal support she requires in her endeavours to support Lord Brandon.”

“Of course, Sire.”

“What happens if they do not sign the papers, Father? At this point I would not put it past Dany to refuse?”

The King’s gaze darkens further to something ancient and unforgiving. “She has now established a pattern of spiteful behaviour. I would argue that she deliberately endangered the life of the Queen. Last I looked, that was high treason.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? Predictions?


	14. CASTERLY ROCK V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Indeed?” He drawls raffishly. “Tell me more.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you as ever for your support and enthusiasm! I'm really enjoying writing this story, and I can't wait to see what you think of this next very fluffy instalment!
> 
> Enjoy, and until next time xx

* * *

JAIME LANNISTER

* * *

_Casterly Rock_

Dazed, he wanders with Sansa back to his own apartments. This is not how he had imagined he would show her his ancestral castle. But he resolves not to let his god-sister’s cruelty spoil this. Sansa’s hand is warm within his, anchoring him. Despite the horror and humiliation he felt at Dany's words about him, with Sansa he still feels himself. His soulmate does not look at him any differently than before; he sees no pity or revulsion in her gentle gaze, only affection and sympathy and anger for what has been done to him, and he is reeling from this gift. It feels like a gift, it feels unreal; he knows, deeply, that he is the luckiest man alive to have her as his soulmate. Only when he is safely within his own rooms does the tension fall from his shoulders. Their bags have already been brought up, and sit in his entrance hall.

“How are you, my Jaime?” His soulmate asks softly.

He throws her a wan smile, scrubbing at his face. “Tired. Tired and heartsick." It is the understatement of the century, but he has no desire to think on it any longer. He trusts his father, he trusts the private secretaries to know how best to handle things going forwards. He has made his preferences clear, and now he washes his hands of it. He has no desire to speak to Dany whatsoever. "I was going to see if I can have a nap - if I can manage to sleep, if you wanted to join me?” He smirks, half-heartedly, trying and failing to summon his usual drawl, turning his attention to the rather more pleasant sight of his soulmate, and away from his scattered, wounded thoughts. “I’m rather fantastic at cuddling.”

“Come on then,” she smiles, and the sight lifts his weary spirit. “Cuddle me.”

He laughs, and tangles his fingers once more with hers, and leads her into his bedroom. He can read her nerves in her gaze, and gathers her to him, smoothing reassuring hands down her back. She shudders out a breath, hiding her face in his chest. “I want to be here,” she says. “But I - bear with me, please?”

“Of course, my Sansa,” he replies, kissing her forehead. “I’ll go and change out of this suit.” He gestures expansively. “Take whatever you like from my closet, or, indeed, I can leave you my pyjama shirt. Whatever you prefer.”

She strokes a soft, gentle hand down his arm. “Thank you.”

Reluctantly, he pulls himself away from her, takes the pyjama bottoms folded upon his bedspread, and disappears into the study to change, leaving her the bathroom. When he returns to his bedroom, he blinks, his heart stuttering and aching with love. Sansa has turned down the bed, dimmed the lights, and has curled herself onto his sofa to wait for him. There’s a pretty flush on her cheeks when she sees him, leaning on the doorjamb, admiring her. The sight of her, wearing his shirt, her balletic limbs and russet hair and glimmering blue eyes, drives him forward with a burst of energy that surprises him and he gathers her to him, entirely enamoured of the way she melts so trustingly, alluringly into his embrace, and carries her to his bed.

“The sight of you here, my Sansa,” he says hoarsely, tucking a curl behind her ear, drifting his fingertips down her cheekbone in a tender caress. “Fuck, I…”

She giggles at his expletive, and reciprocates his touch, smoothing her hand over his cheek, and he groans, drawing her closer, wrapping himself around her, one hand tangling in the silken lengths of her hair. “You are the finest man I’ve ever met,” she replies, shyly tracing his chest and shoulders.

“Indeed?” He drawls raffishly, revelling in her evident admiration of him, revelling in how she makes him feel, a welcome and healing respite. “Tell me more.”

She blushes scarlet. “Impossible man! I did not mean - _that._ ” She closes her eyes in embarrassed consternation. “That - I don’t mean you’re not - ” she squeaks,gesturing helplessly, covering her lovely face with her hands.

He laughs lightly, lifting her palms to his lips, soothing her. “My darling.”

__

“You must know,” she says solemnly, when she has recovered her equanimity, “You are the noblest of men.”

“Given who my parents are, it would be hard not to be,” he smirks, unable to resist. She holds his soul in her dainty hands, and he gives it to her, willingly. 

“Oh, but you are infuriating!” She laughs. “I am trying to compliment you, you insufferable man.”

“I know,” he grins, before sobering. “And I feel the compliment most keenly,” he continues, cupping her cheeks. “Thank you,” he murmurs against her lips. He kisses her forehead, her nose, her cheek, rubs his nose against hers. “My solace, my soul,” he sighs. “My hope, my heart, my Sansa.”

And then he kisses her, slowly, languidly, savouring her, savouring the light in his veins at the sweet, consuming taste and feel of her, relishing the joyous warmth of her in his arms and in his bed. He slows the kiss to something almost-but-not-quite chaste, pouring his heart and his reverence and admiration for her into the action. She smiles at him, and he can’t help the gratification and pride he feels at the happiness that radiates from her. Primal, perhaps, but he relishes it nonetheless.

“Sleep, my Jaime, my soulmate,” she entreats him, brushing his ruffled hair back from his face.

He rubs his nose against hers, simply because he can, because holding her brings him such a great sense of serenity and joy, before settling back against the pillow, exhaling unsteadily when she nestles into his shoulder. Closing his eyes, letting himself drift off, wrapping his arms around her, his nose buried in her sweetly-scented hair, he wonders how soon is too soon to ask her to marry him?

* * *


	15. CASTERLY ROCK VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I had intended just that, after breakfast, actually.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!
> 
> Thank you as always for your encouragement and support for this story! I'm having so much fun with this, and I can't wait to see what you all think of this latest instalment.
> 
> Enjoy, and until next time xx

* * *

TYWIN LANNISTER

* * *

_Casterly Rock_

“Well, Joanna?” Tywin Lannister drawls once the private secretaries have left. He glances at his wife upon the _chaise longue_.

“I confess myself surprised you haven’t already taken Jaime down to the jewellery vaults,” Joanna replies, a faint smirk touching her lips. The Lannister Kings have been famed for centuries for designing all manner of tiaras and crowns and coronets and necklaces and bracelets and rings for those they love.

He barks out a laugh, sprawling out in the armchair. “I had intended just that, after breakfast, actually.” It is an activity he has long enjoyed doing with his son. Jaime has been encouraged in jewellery design since he was a boy, and is rather talented at it, combining his surgeon’s precision with the Lannister flair for colour and aesthetics. Tywin pauses, darkening. “Only to be derailed by that arrogant, cruel chit and her fool of a husband!”

“I never thought…” his Queen trails off sadly. “I know you agreed to take Daenerys in as a child, for me, in memory of my friendship with Rhaella. You warned me then, that it could make her jealous and resentful and - I am sorry I did not listen to you. You were right.”

“I take no pleasure in being right in this case, beloved,” Tywin replies heavily. “None whatsoever. What you have endured, what Jaime is now going through - I will not let her weaken my son’s position in such a manner. He is an exemplary Heir, and I will not let her insinuate otherwise -” he is seething, his rage beyond words. Eventually collecting himself, he says quietly, “It was a decision we made together. And there were good reasons to do it, despite the risks. We both wanted Jaime to grow up with a sibling, we both know what it is to grow up without them.”

“The wound never fully heals,” Joanna whispers. “Not truly.” He knows she is thinking of her parents’ nasty divorce, and he - well, there is a reason one of the most famous photographs of his reign is him as a seventeen year old Crown Prince, stoically standing, head bowed, alone, next to the five coffins of his four younger siblings and mother, killed in a sailing accident. The Old King Tytos had not attended the funeral, preferring instead the embrace of his mistress, and Tywin’s relationship with his father had never recovered, not even with the Old King upon his deathbed, some ten years later. Even now, Tywin’s heart seizes. Kevan, his closest playmate, his brother, who would have followed him to the end. Genna, wickedly clever, dead at eleven. Tygett and Gerion, rambunctious little lions. And his mother, Jeyne, whom all of them had idolised. No matter how humiliating she found her King’s numerous infidelities, Jeyne had always done her duty to her crown, her people, her children, and her good-for-nothing husband.

“Will she sign the papers, do you suppose?” His wife’s question brings him abruptly back to the present.

Tywin snorts. “No.”

“And you will consequently accuse her and her husband of high treason, for endangering my life, knowingly.”

“Indeed I will,” he rejoins coldly. “And _then_ both of them will sign. I will make them sign. But enough, Joanna. I will not have you upsetting yourself. Call me highhanded, arrogant, whatever you will - but I will take no chances with your wellbeing, nor that of our son.”

“And I love you for that wonderful devotion of yours, Tywin,” Joanna smiles. “I laugh because if I do not, I will cry. And I do not wish to cry. I know the risks I run, having had this operation. Please do not think I take this lightly, because I am not,” she continues earnestly.

“I never thought you were,” he reassures her instantly. “But damn it all, Joanna, you collapsed in my arms!” He continues, trembling with repressed emotion. “I thought you would die. I thought - even, for a terrible moment - that you had. I cannot endure that again, beloved. I cannot.”

“And you will not have to, I promise. I’m following the doctors’ instructions. Jaime is now here to help you sort this situation out, and I will get better.”

“We did make a wonderful child, did we not?” He says dryly, an amused, proud glint in his eyes. “But then again, he is our child, so I expected nothing less.”

Joanna laughs lightly, a wet sheen to her eyes. “He is so happy with that dear girl.”

“And what do you think of her?” Tywin raises an eyebrow.

“She’s perfect for him, and he for her, wouldn’t you agree?”

“I would,” Tywin drawls, before throwing her an amused glance. “They are, to borrow your turn of phrase, adorable.”

“They are,” Joanna replies with satisfaction, her lips twitching. “Smitten kittens. Oh, I am so happy for them both!”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? Predictions?


	16. CASTERLY ROCK VII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Only that your absence created quite the scandal. No-one knew where you were.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Thank you as always for your encouragement and support, it truly means a great deal! I hope you enjoy this next instalment - we're back with Sansa and Jaime here, and we also learn a bit more about the strained relationship between Robb and Sansa.
> 
> Enjoy, and until next time xx

* * *

SANSA STARK

* * *

_Casterly Rock_

She wakes up first, stretching languidly in her soulmate’s arms, and the warmth of his embrace, the steady beating of his heart, the way his thigh has slipped between both of hers, renders her dizzy, with joy, with disbelief - it overwhelms her and she has to hide her face against his neck to collect herself. The scent of him, rich, heady, masculine, heats her cheeks still further. He’d held her as they slept on the plane, of course, but this feels different. Perhaps it is because she finds herself in his ancestral home, but this feels more -

“My darling,” Jaime rumbles into her ear, startling her. “Did you sleep well?”

She lifts her head to look at him, and sighs at the tender expression on his face. “I did,” she smiles back. She dares brush her hand through his hair, ruffling it further, her fingertips lingering upon his cheekbones, the line of his jaw. “I am so happy,” she continues quietly. “I have never - I have never been this happy.”

“Nor I,” he replies, the light in his eyes making her swoon, making her more closely into his frame, and her breath catches giddily as his arms tighten around her in response. They are interrupted by Jaime’s phone ringing on his bedside table, and he leans over to take it, groaning. “Yes? Hello, Addam.” He sits up properly. “Of course, I’m very happy to. And yes, I’ll ask her that now - ” he pauses, drifting a caress down her arm, and she shivers with delight at his touch. “Sansa,” he says, “what do you wish to do about your flat in King’s Landing? Do you want me to send someone to fetch some of your things for you?”

She blinks. It’s a fairly obvious question now that she thinks about it. “I - yes, I’d be very grateful.” As much as she enjoys wearing her soulmate’s shirts, they aren’t exactly very appropriate attire in public. There’s a deeper question there as well, and she doesn’t want to have this conversation with a private secretary on the other end of the phone, regardless of whether or not he is Jaime’s closest and oldest friend. “Could we discuss this privately, Jaime?”

The Crown Prince nods affably. “Of course. Addam,” he picks up his phone again, “I’ll call you back shortly to confirm arrangements for the Lady Sansa. You can tell my father I’ll join him after lunch. Thanks.” The call ended, he puts down his mobile upon the bedside table and winks at her. “There, that’ll be less awkward now. I didn’t mean to spring that on you like that.”

Her mouth twitches. “I know you didn’t.” She rubs the sleep and the jetlag from her eyes. “My flat is…” she grimaces. “I haven’t been there very often in the past several years. I keep it only really to have somewhere to sleep between assignments. I have some clothes there, some books. It’s not - it’s not home.” She’s not ashamed, precisely, but she’s suddenly aware of how little she has prioritised her living space. Everything for her work, that has been her mantra; until the WBC took that away. And Winterfell was different after her father's death. No matter how much Catelyn tried; it wasn’t the same. Sansa has not returned to Winterfell since Robb married Daenerys. On the all too rare occasions Sansa has gone North in the past three years, she habitually flies into White Harbor to see her little brothers, to take them out for the weekend, going to their favourite restaurants, going ice skating, visiting museums, checking in on their schooling. The demands of being a war correspondent means that her time with her teenage brothers has necessarily been all too brief and infrequent, but Sansa has done her best.

“Oh, darling,” Jaime reassures her. “The choice is yours - I am merely your lowly messenger,” he continues, waggling his eyebrows to get her to laugh at his ridiculous, playful nature, and he looks very pleased when his gambit works and she giggles at him.

“If deliveries aren’t too much trouble, I would rather simply buy some clothes and suchlike online,” Sansa replies. She wants a clean break, she thinks.

“Addam and my mother’s private secretary will arrange for deliveries from whatever brand you wish,” is her soulmate’s immediate answer. “If you wish to go out into Lannisport as well, you need only say the word and it will be arranged.”

She swallows unsteadily. “You are far too generous, Jaime.”

“Consider it a soulmate-meeting gift, then,” he replies easily, grinning.

She laughs. This man. _This man._ She should have expected this, she thinks. He is a Lannister, after all. “I do enjoy shopping,” she admits shyly. Call her frivolous but she has always had an eye for pretty things. There is something soothing to her about looking at cuts and designs and fabrics, something invigorating and satisfying about hunting down the perfect gift for herself or for those she loves.

“Well then, tell Addam what you’d like, and he’ll arrange it for you. I would come with you but my father requests my presence after lunch,” Jaime continues apologetically.

“There’s nothing for which to apologise, Jaime,” she replies, kissing his cheek softly. “I understand. I know who you are, and I would never ask nor expect you to be that which you are not.” She says that with more gravitas and melancholy than she desires, and his green eyes narrow, picking up all too rapidly upon the strained tones of her voice.

“What is it?” He says.

She hugs her knees to her chest. “What do you remember about Robb’s wedding? And my presence, or rather lack thereof, at the event?”

“Only that your absence created quite the scandal. No-one knew where you were.”

“Oh, my family knew where I was.” She inhales shakily. “They simply didn’t care. Or at least, my mother and Robb cared far more about his wedding. You will soon discover, I fear, that my family - the facade of this perfect family is just that; a facade. The reality is far messier. Far more painful.” She stares down at her fingers. “Do you remember the hospital bombings in Bhorash?”

“The first ones after the Volantene government failed to negotiate an official cease-fire with the Slaver’s Bay pirates - yes, I think I remember, you were there, were you not? You got the story about the doctors having to choose arbitrarily which patients to save in the courtyard - ” His eyes shut in remembered horror. “It’s every doctor’s worst nightmare.”

“Yes,” she says soberly. “You know as well as I, most of the reporters in the region are stationed in Mantarys or Volantis, and then when something happens it’s a race to get there first. I work a bit differently; I prefer more embedded assignments. I was the only reporter in Bhorash before the bombs went off - I was filming a segment on the lives of the civilians, how they deal with the constant pirate raids and violence, and then all of a sudden I was - well, the situation escalated very quickly. And the only reason I could get into the hospitals at all was because the locals trusted me, because I’d been there for months. They knew me. And they wanted the world to know what they were having to endure.” She laughs hollowly. “My mother was furious when I accepted the assignment, seven months before Robb’s wedding.” She still remembers, with an aching heart, the ultimatum her mother gave her three years ago. _Come home to help organise your brother’s wedding, or else. Why can’t you just leave your job? The daughter of an Earl should not be a war correspondent. It’s unseemly._ “You can’t leave in the middle of an assignment. But I negotiated a weekend off with WBC. I booked a flight home for the day before the wedding. I will be honest, I didn’t want to attend. Not after the way my mother and Robb behaved. Robb somehow managed to persuade my handler at WBC to forward his calls - I remember him shouting down the phone, haranguing me because I refused to give him the code for the safe in my study. House Stark has four ancestral tiaras.”

“I’m impressed,” Jaime drawls, smirking.

Sansa huffs out a laugh, glaring at him in mock outrage. “Yes, well. Daenerys wanted the Weirwood Leaf coronet, which can only be worn by the eldest daughter of House Stark - in this case, me. Arya has the rather whimsically named Frosted Winter Rose diadem. Perhaps it’s selfish, but I didn’t want someone I’d never met wearing one of my favourite pieces of jewellery, one that means so much to me, one that was given to me by my father for my own wedding day.” She holds back a blush with difficulty at the suddenly intense look in her soulmate’s eyes. “But I spoke to Arya about it and she agreed with me, so I emailed Robb back, saying Daenerys should really be wearing a Targaryen tiara, not a Stark one, but if she was set on wearing a Stark one, Arya and I would offer her the choice of the Bronze bandeau or the Snowflake tiara. And perhaps it’s silly to be so upset by it - but I - Robb kept demanding I give in. So too did my mother, - anything for her favourite child - but I could not. I regret that things got so out of hand but I - ”

“Darling, you’re talking to a Lannister,” Jaime answers. “I know only too well the meaning of jewellery. I don’t think you were being unreasonable.”

She laughs wetly at that, and curls up in his arms, seeking the solace his warmth and presence gives her. “I can forgive them for asking, but I can’t forgive them for expecting that I give in because they demanded it of me. They expected me to give in. And I can’t forget that. I can’t forgive it.” It’s not really about the tiara at all; Sansa knows. It’s about the expectation. The whole incident had shown her once and for all how little her mother and brother value her. “But I bought a plane ticket nonetheless. And then, two days before I was due to fly out - ”

“The roads to Bhorash were blown up, and the pirates blocked the harbour,” Jaime continues grimly, remembering. “You were trapped.”

“For a month,” Sansa nods. “And Robb and my mother had the gall to accuse me of having deliberately got myself trapped in what was effectively a town besieged by pirates, all to avoid attending the wedding.” Her fists clench in Jaime’s shirt. “I was doing my job,” she says quietly, solemnly. “And the timing was unlucky, that's all, not that my mother and Robb believe me when I say it.”

“I believe you, Sansa,” Jaime declares, and she looks up at him, wide-eyed, hardly daring to believe her ears. “I believe you.” He huffs out a weary breath. “Thank you for telling me. Why did no-one say this at the time?”

Sansa laughs bitterly. “That would require my mother to air dirty laundry in public; so it was covered up by letting people draw their own conclusions, simply saying I wasn't coming to the wedding.”

“That makes no sense to me,” Jaime frowns.

“I never claimed my mother or Robb to be particularly rational people. They’re both led purely by emotion.”

“Daenerys is the same, despite my father’s best efforts.” Jaime snorts. “Speaking of, do you want to be at the meeting late this afternoon?”

“With the King and Queen? Daenerys and Robb?” Her stomach twists at the thought. “I was planning to see how my little brothers are doing, and get the family lawyers involved.”

Her soulmate reads the avoidance in her words. “You don’t have to attend if you don’t wish it. No-one will think any less of you.”

She presses her face against his shoulder. “I would prefer not to attend,” she shudders out a response.

“Then that is what we will plan for,” Jaime replies, his voice rich and reassuring, and the tension melts from her.

“Thank you, my Jaime,” she tells him seriously.

“You are most welcome, darling.” His lips linger upon her forehead and she revels in the gesture. “But I would ask if I can tell my father what you’ve just told me, before he goes into the meeting with them.”

“Of course,” she nods, shaky with relief. “Anything that will help.”

“Good.” He stands then, lifting her with him, laughing as she yelps with surprise. Mischievous man, she thinks adoringly. “How does a picnic lunch on one of the terraces sound?”

“It’s not a picnic unless there are blankets,” Sansa points out dryly.

“Good point,” Jaime nods seriously, a wicked glint in his eyes. “All the better to cuddle you with then.”

“Jaime!” She exclaims, giggling.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? Predictions?


	17. CASTERLY ROCK VIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But perhaps not all aspects of his fantasy must for now remain a fantasy, Jaime considers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! I hope you're all safe and well. Thank you so much as ever for all your encouragement and support, it means a great deal. This chapter is pure fluffy romance and smitten kittens galore, so I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> I am very slowly working on TINTB and Idyll's End, but at the moment I'm afraid I can't give a firm ETA on them. 
> 
> I can't wait to see what you think of this latest instalment - enjoy!

* * *

JAIME LANNISTER

* * *

_Casterly Rock_

Organising a picnic lunch for himself and his soulmate is the work of a single text to Addam and a phone call to the Head Chef, a formidable man by the name of Leontinus, who has run the palace kitchens with the grace and rigour of a ballet master for as long as Jaime can remember. Whilst both of them wait for the food to arrive, along with Sansa’s requested blankets, and a few extras Jaime has mentioned to Addam, he replies to his emails, setting up his habitual appointment with his therapist, reading reports on the charities he supports, and beginning his first draft of the keynote address he will make in the coming days. No date has as yet been set for that, but Jaime expects it to be one of the topics he’ll discuss with his father the King this afternoon in the jewellery vaults, and so he prefers to be prepared.

Sansa sits at his side, shopping online. She’d blushed heavily when he’d handed her his credit card with a wink, and he finds rather endearing her insistence on showing him everything before purchase. He knows this stems from her desire to show that she is not needlessly frivolous, or taking advantage of him, and the consideration she shows him makes his heart ache, and he ducks his head to hide the sudden pricking of his eyes. She takes his breath away, she awes him. He does not think he has met anyone as gentle and thoughtful as she.

He would not have offered her his card if he had any reservations about her character (and indeed as he plans to drape her in all manner of diamonds and gold he would be genuinely surprised if anything she buys came close to putting even the slightest dent in his account). It pleases him to care for her - and is the way it is for every soulmate pair? Finding that every reaction, every gesture, merely indicates again and again how well suited they are? She is made for him as he is made for her, of this he is utterly, wholly certain.

Jaime is a little stunned when he realises that it is the Head Chef himself who has come to present the two of them with the food, and he bows his head, momentarily overwhelmed. To know that the people who have seen him grow up are so supportive and happy for him is humbling and he thanks the man profusely, shaking his hand.

His soulmate comes to stand quietly next to him, resting a dainty hand upon his back, and he feels the soothing warmth of her palm through the material of his shirt and he inhales deeply, revelling in it. The fall of her shining hair brushes his arm and he sighs, suppressing with difficulty the urge to draw her fully into his arms and kiss her.

“Shall we eat, Jaime?” She says softly, and he blinks, realising a bit awkwardly that they are alone once more, the food set out on the terrace for them.

“Yes,” he agrees swiftly. Addam and the Head Chef have, as is their habit, exceeded Jaime’s instructions. His shaded terrace is now a romantic haven with an unsurpassable view of the glittering Sunset Sea. Somehow, Addam has managed to find Stark tweed blankets and laid them out upon the lawn in the shade of the colonnaded pergola, heavy with sweetly-scented flowering vines, which Jaime normally keeps pruned into arches so as to not obstruct the view. Oversized cushions of crimson silk, plump and structured enough to prop up against the rock wall and lean against them without injuring his back, are scattered about. A lilting violin adagio plays softly in the background. In the middle of one of the blankets is a picnic basket, overflowing with mouthwatering dishes. A spiced charcuterie board with olive focaccia, still warm from the oven, wrapped in a white napkin to prevent crumbs from going everywhere. Grilled artichoke, aubergine and roasted red pepper salad with a fresh herb pesto vinaigrette. Crispy courgette flowers stuffed with lemony ewe’s milk cheese, whipped into a mousse with honey and roasted pine nuts folded through it. Peaches and apricots roasted in almond liquor, served with crushed brown sugar meringues and lavish amounts of vanilla whipped cream. And to wash it all down, an elderflower lemonade. The unlit candles in storm lanterns and abundant bouquets of peonies are perhaps a bit too much for a simple lunch, but the way Sansa’s eyes light up at the sight makes Jaime think he’s not judged this so badly after all.

“Thank you, my Jaime,” she says, blushing. “This is wonderful.”

He lifts her small hand to kiss her palm, before settling it against his pounding heart. “I can only claim credit for the idea, not the execution,” he drawls.

“Even so,” she persists in her gentle way, brushing his cheekbone with her thumb and the way she is gazing up at him is too much -

He kisses her then, ardently, growling with pleasure at the way she tangles her fingers into his hair and melts into him, and he lifts her entirely into his arms, smiling at the hitch in her breath, before gently lowering them both onto the blankets and cushions. She breaks the kiss then, her eyes dark, her lips alluringly red, and he holds himself above her upon his elbows. Her soft hands rest chastely upon his shoulders, and he wants to kiss her again, he wants to touch her, he wants to unbutton the shirt of his she is wearing and kiss and tease her bare skin, he wants to feel the soft weight of her breasts in his hands, he wants to unravel her, he wants to make love to her here, in the sunlight, but he does not wish to frighten her or push her, and so he rubs his nose against hers before repeating the reassurance out loud.

“I will never push you.”

“I know,” she smiles radiantly. “I know, my Jaime.”

But perhaps not all aspects of his fantasy must for now remain a fantasy, Jaime considers. He sits up and plucks some of the peonies from a vase, feeling Sansa’s curious gaze upon him. Brow furrowed in concentration, he weaves the fragrant stems together in a flower crown, Turning back to his soulmate, he brushes her hair back from her shoulders, fingertips lingering upon the sensitive shells of her ears and her neck, before he places the crown upon her head, holding her blue gaze.

His name leaves her lips in a shuddered exhale, and he smirks a little in response. She is so exquisitely responsive to him, he revels. He kisses her again, languidly, slowly, decadently. “My Queen of Love and Beauty,” he rasps when at last he pulls away to breathe. She blushes, violently, and he finds it immensely endearing that her eyes remain shut in proud, embarrassed, dazed satisfaction.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Tywin and Jaime in the jewellery vaults. (I am ridiculously excited for this next scene)


	18. CASTERLY ROCK IX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You are my son. You knew you wanted to marry her the moment you met her. So I ask again, what designs have you been working on?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone,
> 
> Thank you as always for your support and encouragement, it means a great deal. I hope you're all staying safe and healthy in these crazy, scary times. Here's some fluff and rather endearing Lannister father-son bonding for you all: I had so much fun writing this chapter. Thanks too to TM for our discussions on Tywin's characterisation!
> 
> Enjoy, and until next time xx

* * *

TYWIN LANNISTER

* * *

_the vaults at Casterly Rock_

“I take it you had a good picnic?” Tywin says dryly as his son enters the vault, looking more at peace than Tywin has seen him in years.

“I did,” Jaime answers proudly, even as his cheeks pinken, taking the armchair opposite his father’s, leaning back, the picture of a man at ease with his life.

“Good,” Tywin nods. “Your mother and I are pleased for you.”

His son’s eyes widen, and when he speaks it is with a voice thickened with emotion. “Thank you, Father.”

“What engagement ring designs have you been working on?” Tywin pursues, satisfied when his only child sputters and gapes at him in astonishment. Tywin snorts in reply. “You are my son. You knew you wanted to marry her the moment you met her. So I ask again, what designs have you been working on?”

“I - Father - ”

Tywin raises an eyebrow, hands his son the sketchbook and pencil lying on the table between them and waits. Jaime looks at him, considering, before taking a deep breath and beginning, his hand moving in confident strokes across the paper. When Jaime has finished, he hands the sketchbook back to his father.

“Will you explain it to me?” Tywin drawls evenly, engaging in the pattern he has kept to since his son was a small boy. He is not insensible to the momentous nature of the occasion, and Tywin thinks sticking to a long-held tradition might help his son. This is what Tywin himself wishes Old Tytos had cared enough to do with him. Tywin can see well enough what Jaime’s sketch represents, but he wants to hear the words from his son. Jewellery means something to Lannister men. Men and women die but gems are eternal, and gems designed for soulmates mean the love, in some ways, is eternal too. Each piece or suite of jewellery designed by Tywin or Jaime furthers the Lannister legacy. And so he wants to hear why Jaime has made the design choices he has.

“Sansa is a quiet nature,” Jaime begins, a light in his eyes that warms Tywin's heart to see. “She’s gentle, and calm, and still waters run deep. She has so much to give. I am so ridiculously lucky, Father - she is elegant and refined and she - this ring is everything she is; dainty and complex and feminine and she’s like the sunlight upon the water, glimmering.” Jaime flushes at his rambling speech. “I’d like to commission a whole parure: ring, tiara, earrings, necklace, bracelet for her.”

“In the same design? Pavé white diamond loop setting of pear-cut gems?” Tywin continues evenly.

“Yes.”

“And what do you wish for the central emerald-cut halo-set stone? And indeed all the surrounding pear-cut pave-set diamond loops?”

Jaime frowns. “Something blue, for her sunset eyes, but not aquamarines.”

“No, of course not,” Tywin replies easily, before standing. “Come, Jaime, I think I might have something that will pique your interest.” He leads his son over to one of the safes, opens it, and lifts out the heavy velvet pouch inside, before carrying it back to where they have been sitting. Before handling the gems, Tywin puts on white silk gloves and gestures for Jaime to do the same. And then he extends the pouch to his son. “Take them out and tell me what you think.”

Tywin leans back in the leather armchair and watches as his son takes out the first gem, stopping cold when he realises what it is. A smirk plays about the corners of the King's mouth. “Your eyes do not deceive you, Jaime. Those are indeed blue diamonds.”

“I - what - how?”

“Every year the Skirling Pass Mines north of the Wall send me one or two of their best blue diamonds, ethically sourced, of course, as a very generous gift in thanks for my passing the Jewel Standards and Investment Incentive Law when I first became King. It has made their business, and that of all the gemstone and metal mines in Westeros, much more profitable over the past forty years, as you know.”

“And you kept them all, instead of using them for a design for Mama?” Jaime wonders. “There must be at least thirty here.”

Tywin smirks. “There are another two blue diamond safes. I’d say the total is closer to a hundred blue diamonds from Skirling. Some were gifts, as already mentioned, most of the others I bought, seeing the quality of the gems.”

“They’re beautiful, Father,” Jaime replies, staggered, shaking his head.

“You know how it is: the gems choose the setting.” Tywin gestures expansively. “The blue diamonds are yours to do with as you see fit.”

His son’s eyes snap to his, incredulously.

“You wanted a full engagement parure for the Lady Sansa and her sunset-eyes, did you not?” Tywin drawls. “So, talk me through the ring, now that you have the gems in front of you.”

Hesitantly, Jaime does so. Tywin finds his son’s earnestness rather moving. The central emerald-cut blue diamond should not be too large, given the overall design of the ring, and Tywin and his son debate good-naturedly the merits of different carat sizes. Then comes the outer pear-cut looped halo, with comparatively larger gems at the cardinal points and smaller ones on the diagonals. The overall effect is one reminiscent of the unfurling peony flowers Tywin learns Jaime and Sansa now hold rather dearly. It is a delicate, light design that belies the grandeur of the individual gems.

The same looping design will be used for the rest of the parure, though the tiara gems will be some of the grandest in the collection; the central blue diamond weighing just over forty-two carats.

“I also wished to give the Lady Sansa a bracelet or necklace, whilst the ring is being made,” Jaime tells Tywin.

“Of course,” Tywin nods his approval. It is gratifying to the King to see his son and heir taking this so seriously. “Do you know what you would like?”

“Something she would be glad to wear every day, that will not overwhelm her attire,” Jaime responds, sketching enthusiastically. “A white gold cuff, with a mother-of-pearl cameo in the centre. Or a more delicate pearl and cameo link bracelet?” His son frowns. “Would both be too much? She could wear them together?” He questions his father earnestly.

Tywin smirks. “She is your soulmate, Jaime.”

“I do not wish to make a mistake with her. She is too precious to me,” his son confesses quietly, folding in on himself the way Tywin saw him do this morning, in the aftermath of Daenerys’s cruel words, and for the thousandth time today Tywin curses both his god-daughter and the hag who will need her NDA tightened.

“Jaime,” Tywin says, leaning forwards to cup his son’s nape, forcing his heir to look him in the eye. “Have faith in yourself, in your Lady Sansa. She is your soulmate; if you think about it you will realise you already know the answers to the questions you have asked me.”

“Thank you, Father,” Jaime swallows heavily, collecting himself. “I did have some other ideas, for a second parure.”

Tywin barks out a laugh, full and rich. “Of course you do; you’re a Lannister and my son. Well, have at it: let’s see your attempt at depleting these vaults entirely.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Sansa gets on the phone to her younger brothers.


	19. CASTERLY ROCK X

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I would like to meet him.” 
> 
> “Of course.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone, thank you as always for your continuing support and enthusiasm! I'm having so much fun writing this, and I can't wait to see what you all think of this next instalment. We're back to the plot, this time, with Sansa making a few important phone calls. 
> 
> Enjoy, and until next time xx

* * *

SANSA STARK

* * *

_Casterly Rock_

Jaime had left her to it with a series of lingering kisses that make her blush now to think about, as she sits, curled up on the sofa, laptop and notebook and fountain pen upon the coffee table in front of her, and phone held safely in her hand. Her daydreaming is interrupted by the sound of her godfather’s comforting bass cutting off the ringing tones, answering her call.

“Hello, Sansa,” Lord Yohn Royce says. “I’ve been expecting your call.”

She laughs, a little embarrassed. “Yes, well. I wanted to ask your advice, if you had a moment.”

“My dear, for you I always have a moment.”

“Thank you,” she replies, swallowing thickly.

“You’ve been in touch with the Cassels, I take it?” The Professor at the Runestone School of Law is as sharp as he has ever been.

“I have.” The Cassels have been Stark vassals and stewards for thousands of years, and for the past few centuries, Cassel & Co have been the legal firm the Starks have on permanent retainer. “They’re gathering the documentation to support Bran as the Stark in Winterfell and Earl as I speak. The problem is Robb, and Mama.”

“You’re doing well,” her godfather reassures her. “Word in my circles is that your mother has hired that sleaze-ball Baelish to fight for Robb’s claim, so you have to be prepared for this to get dirty.”

Her stomach drops. “Right.”

“The good news is that there’s no case Baelish can assemble that will stand up in court. The law on this is absolutely clear: to be Stark in Winterfell and Earl, Robb must live in the North, and indeed specifically at Winterfell. He must have Winterfell as his principal residence _and_ file taxes at Winterfell. He must attend all the traditional and ancient feast days and ceremonies, and do his part governing the region, helming the Northern Conclave, to say nothing of the actual running of the Winterfell estate itself. The sheer amount of time all of those activities take up mean that it is physically impossible to do the job from afar, or being onsite only a few months each year. If Robb is in Lys, he cannot fulfil the duties the title requires him to undertake. Bran is the legitimate heir to your brother.”

“What about a regency? Could that be used against Bran? He’s still seventeen,” Sansa frowns.

“If Bran were seven, not seventeen, perhaps. But it is a matter of months before Bran comes of age.” He sighs. “I know this is a messy and humiliating situation to be in, I know you did not want this, but rest assured that your case is very, very strong.”

“Thank you, Yohn,” she answers, feeling more at ease.

“I watched your press conference with the Crown Prince.” She can hear the amusement in the wry drawl of her godfather’s voice as he changes the subject, and she flushes violently. “He’s visibly smitten with you, and you with him,” the Professor continues more gently.

“I have never been this happy,” she confesses quietly.

“Good. You seem very well suited, though that is expected of soulmates.”

She laughs. “It should feel terrifying; it isn’t. He is everything I have ever dreamed,” she trails off, becoming shyer.

“I would like to meet him.”

“Of course.”

* * *

“Hello, sissy,” she has to laugh at Bran and Rickon’s greeting of her. She’s video-calling them this time, and she avidly scans their expressions on the screen, searching for any clue that might tell her how they are coping with the whole fiasco. Her younger brothers appear to be in Bran’s dorm room, judging by the giant poster of famous philosophers on the pinboard behind them. “Don’t worry, Sansa,” Bran grins, pre-empting his elder sister’s question, “I’ve a free period now, and I asked special permission from Maester Luwin for Rickon to miss geography so we could call you at the same time.”

“Alright, as long as you catch up on your class, Rickon,” Sansa agrees.

“Don’t worry, Sansa, I will. Geo’s easy anyway,” Rickon grins, all cocky teenager. At least he’s still wearing his uniform correctly, Sansa notes with relief.

“How are you both? Bran, you look tired.”

Her brother grimaces. “It’s been interesting. Maester Luwin has banned newspapers, but some of the other boys have been emailing me photos of the more lurid front pages. It’s mostly been the questions and comments. And um - _theresapinupcalendarofyou_ \- ”

“I’m sorry, what?” Sansa blinks. She can’t have heard him correctly.

“Dom was passing around a sketch pin-up calendar and Maester Luwin caught him.”

“Tell it properly, Bran!” Rickon interjects. “Dom tried to show Bran the calendar, Bran, being the good brother and all round good person that he is, showed it to Maester Luwin, and now Dom has detention every morning this week.I wanted to punch Dom but Bran said I would have to join Dom in detention if I did, so I didn’t."

“Rickon!” Sansa exclaims.

“He has to run around all the carparks in White Harbor getting a ticket from each in forty-five minutes or less and present them - ”

“Alright, Rickon, she gets the idea,” Bran indicates, a calmer counterpoint to the younger brother's vindictive enthusiasm.

For Sansa’s part, she is still trying to wrap her head around the fact that in the past day people have started making _pin-up calendars_ of her. There are no compromising photos of her that exist, but the idea that teenage boys have started - well. “Maester Luwin has dealt with it?” She asks when she has found her voice again.

“He has, Sansa,” Bran answers. “He said he would email you later today about it, and touch base with you about what security arrangements etc you want for us.”

“He’s not talking to Mama?” Sansa frowns.

“Mama has made her position clear,” Bran growls darkly. “She screamed at Rickon on the phone and then screamed at me.” He fiddles with his shirt-cuff. “Could you - until I turn eighteen, become my guardian? And then I become Rickon’s once I’m of age?”

She gulps, but she says yes, how can she not? It breaks her heart to see the way her younger brothers’ eyes light up when she agrees.

“I also have to leave White Harbor, don’t I?” Bran continues morosely. “Not that I don’t love Winterfell, I do - but this is my last year here.”

“Yes,” Sansa says, with a heavy heart. “I can pay for your private tutors to get you through the next few months. I’m sure we can arrange with Maester Luwin something so you can take your final exams.” She sees Bran about to protest, and continues, firmly. “I have enough money to pay - I forbid you from dipping into your trust fund in order to pay for your tuition. I’m your elder sister; I’m meant to take care of you.”

“This isn't fair; Robb was meant to - ”

“No, it isn't fair, Bran,” Sansa commiserates. “But this is the situation we find ourselves in; we are Starks, and we do our duty.”

“I’m afraid,” Bran says hoarsely, smiling wanly when Rickon hugs him.

“I know you are, but you will not be alone. You'll have all the help you need, I promise.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? Predictions?


	20. CASTERLY ROCK XI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What makes you think you have any bargaining power here?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone, I hope you're all safe and well. Thank you as always for your support and encouragement, it means a great deal. Thanks go to TM for her invaluable help with this chapter, I literally could not have written it without her input. 
> 
> I hope you all enjoy this instalment, and until next time xxx

* * *

TYWIN LANNISTER

* * *

_Casterly Rock_

“The Lady Daenerys and Lord Robb to see you, Sire,” the Captain Vylarr announces evenly.

“Thank you, Captain. You may send them in,” Tywin replies, not looking up from his reading. The purpose of this exercise is to make the two miscreants that are his wife’s goddaughter and her husband squirm to his satisfaction.

The only sound in the King’s solar is the steady ticking of the ornamental grandfather clock opposite Tywin’s desk. Robb and Dany will fidget and fidget, the Captain Vylarr will stand to attention, behind his King, staring firmly at the two idiots until Tywin, after a total of seventeen minutes, caps his fountain pen and places it carefully back on his desk.

“Sit.” Tywin does not wait to see if his command shall be followed; he knows it will. Tywin bites back a smirk at the grimaces that cross the couple’s faces as they sit down. He had asked the Captain to bring these specific chairs up from storage, as they are spectacularly and deliberately uncomfortable. They have behaved as cruel and petulant children; it is only, fitting, therefore, that they should be thus seated. Tywin then goes on to explain, in cold, clipped tones, that as a result of their announcement he has had the appropriate papers drawn up for them to sign.

“But - but this includes a formal and public apology to the Queen and to Jaime, and an NDA and a restriction against using our royal lives in any kind of commercial enterprise!” Daenerys shakes her head, her eyes tearing up on cue (Tywin is counting the seconds) “Which means we can’t fulfil our deal with Wesflix, or any of the other companies I worked so _hard_ to line up for us - every single time I have the tiniest ambition you rip it to pieces - ”

“Enough.” Tywin slams his desk with his palm. “You shame a three year old with your tantrum.” They protest as he had expected they would; but they are fools if they believe their words will move him. “Your actions have caused great distress to my wife the Queen, to my son the Crown Prince, to his soulmate - and you think I will simply accept such a half-hearted apology! No, if it is Lys and fame you desire, then fame and Lys you shall have. But if you think you may also make money from my name and associating with _my_ house, you are, once again, sorely mistaken. You shall have to find work based purely upon your own skills; after all that is what having the freedom to make your own choices means, no?”

“We didn’t mean to hurt anyone - ” Daenerys is the more argumentative of the two; Robb merely looks entirely lost, and Tywin represses a sneer at the man’s ineptitude.

“ _Oh yes you did.”_ Tywin snarls, standing, leaning forwards over his desk, looming over the two. “You meant to hurt Jaime with that press conference, you meant to hurt your Stark siblings-in-law, and you meant to hurt my wife. My wife loved you!” Tywin thunders. “She took you in, raised you, cherished you like the daughter she never had and you repaid her with the most senseless cruelty and thoughtless betrayal - ”

“How was I to know my announcement would put the Queen in hospital? That’s not fair - ”

“To say nothing of the way you have treated my _son,_ who has treated you as a little sister and this is how you repay him, calling him a coward when he is a military surgeon, so callously revealing a private and painful element of his biography with no care for the consequence - how _dare_ you do such things to my family. How. _Dare._ You.”

“I did not think - ”

“And that is the other part of the problem. You did not think things through. And look who you’ve hurt with your actions as a consequence. My wife. My son. Both of whom have done _nothing_ to deserve what you have put them through over the past day. You have shamed me. You have shamed and hurt my wife, my son, and your husband’s family. Do the two of you truly not think of anyone at all but yourselves? You know better. Both of you know better. You have been taught better.”

“She loved me?” Daenerys whispers. For the first time Tywin sees something approaching realisation in her eyes.

“Yes. She did. Of _course_ she did. And you threw all of that back in her face, like the ungrateful little chit you have shown yourself to be.” He laughs darkly. “After the way you hurt her? Hurt her beloved _son?_ He wants nothing more to do with you. At all. But you thought her love for you gave you free rein. Well, it does not.” He pauses, his voice softening slightly. “But despite that, yes, she loves you still. That is a testament to her kindness, her strength of character, not yours.”

“You told me they were cold to you, Dany,” Robb mumbles, but not quietly enough for Tywin not to overhear, and he stills.

He gapes at her in bewilderment, in fury, in - in - “What have we done to you that you hate us this much?” He says hoarsely. “All we have done is given you a home, a stable, loving upbringing - and this - this is what you have been saying of us behind our backs! _This!_ ” He cannot bear to look at her any longer, and he stands, striding towards the windows, and he stares out to the horizon, unseeing. He grips his hands behind his back. He speaks only when he is certain he can control his voice. “You will sign the papers, and you will take the next flight to Lys.”

“I - Alright, Your Grace,” Daenerys’s shaken voice replies eventually, and he hears the familiar sound of pen swooping over paper. There is a moment of silence and then, hesitantly, a question: “may I farewell Her Grace the Queen before we go?”

“What makes you think you have any bargaining power here?” He whirls around, snarling. His wife's goddaughter, their ward for so many years, meets his furious glare with embarrassed remorse, and his jaw relaxes. “Alright, I will grant you that,” he sighs, before adding more sternly, “I do this for my wife, to avoid hurting her further. I do not do this for you. Remember that.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? Predictions?


	21. FEASTFIRES I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Well, some of my new clothes have arrived,” she smirks, “so if you have no objection to throwing on some black tie, I thought we could go out this evening. There’s somewhere I’d like to take you, somewhere I’ll be very surprised if you've already been.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Welcome to this next instalment, I hope you all enjoy it! Thank you as always for your encouragement and support, it means a great deal! 
> 
> happy holidays, and let's hope 2021 is a better year!
> 
> enjoy, and until next time xxx

* * *

_Feastfires_

* * *

JAIME LANNISTER

He returns to his apartments in the late afternoon, feeling settled. His time in the vaults designing jewellery has helped him; he finds it rather meditative, aside from the enjoyment he derives from creating things of beauty for the woman he loves. Not that he’s said that yet, he probably should, he thinks. He’s made more than one declaration, but he has not yet said the proper words themselves. Not even the annoyance of having Addam text him Dany and Robb’s path through the castle so Jaime can avoid them, can successfully dampen his spirits. Not when he has the rather splendid images in his mind of his soulmate draped in swirls of gold and diamonds and draped in lengths of pearls.

Nonetheless, when he closes his door and ambles through the hall, he feels a weight from his shoulders lift. This is his sanctuary, shared now with his soulmate. How lucky he is! He gives in to the impulse to waltz down his corridor, humming, grinning at the sight he makes in the mirrors, and laughing outright when he sees Sansa watching him, smiling.

He extends his hand with a flamboyant bow, absurdly pleased when she takes it, and he waltzes them through his suite and out onto the terrace, both of them giggling like little children, eventually collapsing onto one of the sofas.

“You are ridiculous,” she says warmly, cupping his cheek. “Never change.”

“I promise,” he replies, kissing her, groaning when she melts against him. “What do you want to do for dinner this evening?” He asks when he reluctantly pulls away to breathe.

“Well, some of my new clothes have arrived,” she smirks, “so if you have no objection to throwing on some black tie, I thought we could go out this evening. There’s somewhere I’d like to take you, somewhere I’ll be very surprised if you've already been.”

“A black tie restaurant in the area I’ve not been to? You’ve intrigued me.” He racks his brains, but cannot think of where this mysterious place might be. Admittedly, he doesn’t keep absolutely informed of every single new restaurant opening in the Westerlands, but he does appreciate the finer things in life, so he does make an attempt at following the culinary scene nonetheless.

She laughs again, and he revels in the sound. “I thought you might say that. Alright, I’ll give Addam the co-ordinates so he can organise security, so the only thing you need to worry about is being ready at 7.30pm.”

“That is well within my talents,” he drawls, drawing her closer for another kiss.

* * *

He dresses in the study, leaving Sansa the bedroom and bathroom for her own use. He’s not often surprised, so he’s rather touched that Sansa is organising this. He’s so used to having his schedule being set firmly in advance - at least when he’s not in the operating theatre - that the idea of a happy surprise such as this is a rather a novel and pleasing idea to him. He squashes down the urge to ask Sansa for clues, and lets himself enjoy the sensation.

He waits for her in his drawing room, and looks up when he hears the sound of her heels on the parquet floors. His mouth dries. She wears a gown of iced blue silk, clinging fluidly to her body. Her hair is curled into lustrous waves over one shoulder.

“Darling,” he rasps, standing, striding towards her to gather her to him. His brow furrows when instead of cool, slippery fabric his palm instead touches the warmth of her skin, and he swallows, loudly. Her dress is backless, he realises. “My sweet siren,” he continues, cupping her jaw, smoothing his thumb down her neck, across her collarbone, “fuck, you’re beautiful.” She blushes, and he watches avidly as the colour spreads across her cheeks.

“Will I do?” He asks mischievously, when he has recovered himself, and he has the pleasure of seeing her blush deepen, and feeling the shudder in her body at his words.

She does not reply with a quip, as he might have expected. Instead, her eyes are oddly solemn as she cups his cheek with one hand, the other slipping inside his jacket to rest against his heart. “You have so much presence, so much heart, so much charisma, which you wear as well as you fill out this suit, that I sometimes wonder how I can think coherently around you at all, you magnificent man.”

She thinks him magnificent? That is the finest compliment he’s ever received, and one he’s oddly rendered shy by. “I want so very much to kiss you, Sansa, but I don’t wish to smudge your lipstick or your hair,” he says. He wants everything with her.

She laughs again. “Later, I promise.”

“I will hold you to that, with interest.”

Her eyes glimmer. “I look forward to it.” She tangles her fingers with his. “Now come, or we shall be late.”

He blinks to find the sat-nav already set up when they get to his sports car. “Do I not get a name?” He asks.

“No,” she grins, and he relents good-naturedly.

And so he listens attentively to the artificial voice guiding him out of the city of Lannisport and up into the mountains towards Feastfires, Bronn and the security team following behind them in a second car. It is a stunning drive, up along the clifftops, with a view of the sea that is nearly second-to-none (only the private family apartments of the Rock can boast anything similar), and a view of the Rock that is unequalled. They drive along the deserted country road for some twenty minutes, coming to a tiny hamlet, all honey-stone cottages and climbing roses, on the edge of the cliffs. At the edge of the village is a sprawling renovated farmstead, and Jaime turns into the courtyard, following the sat-nav to park by the line of potted geraniums.

A young couple is waiting for them on the front step, and Jaime marvels at the size of the smile on Sansa’s face and as she very elegantly flies into the woman’s arms. “Jaime! May I introduce Irri and Moro, the owners of _The Lemon Garland._ ”

Jaime bows affably, before turning to Sansa, his eyebrow raised. She divines his curiosity immediately. “Moro and Irri were my translator and hostess respectively, when I was in Borash. After the siege was lifted, they became targets, and managed to escape to the Seven, gaining official status as refugees. Moro refused payment for his translation services, so I bought them this farm as a very belated wedding gift,” Sansa explains.

“It was too generous of you,” Irri smiles.

“It was not,” Sansa replies, gently, and Jaime senses this is a conversation they have had multiple times already. “And everything you have built here, the restaurant, the gardens, the orchard - you built that yourselves. You built the business plan, and secured investment, and rightfully so, given Irri’s cooking is some of the finest I have ever tasted, and Moro’s hospitality so wonderful. I have not come here often enough.”

“Thank you, Sansa. Crown Prince, we are honoured to cook tonight for you both.” Moro says, bowing, before gesturing for Sansa and Jaime to follow him through the colonnades into the courtyard garden on the other side of the building, and then from there, out into the lemon grove proper. Fairy lights and golden ornaments hang from the branches. The tables are laid with crisp white tablecloths, the glasses and cutlery gleaming in the light of the candlesticks, set upon each table. And beyond - beyond is the sea and the slowly setting sun, a romantic prelude to a balmy summer evening. “We do not have a menu, Sire; Irri simply goes to the market in the village every morning, or visits the local producers, and buys what is good and fresh,” Moro explains, as he serves a carafe of water. “We combine this with what is ripe from our kitchen garden here, and then Irri makes magic, an ode of longing and farewell to our home country which we had to leave, and a song to this, our new home, which welcomed us in a very dark period of our lives. Our restaurant is about celebrating life, and feasts, a prayer of gratitude to all that is good in and upon this earth.”

“I look forward to it; you have in me an eager and hopeful customer,” Jaime replies, profoundly moved.

* * *

The food is stunning, the setting spectacular, the atmosphere intimate, the company charming and far too alluring. Jaime has never found himself so entirely - he had thought finding his soulmate was overwhelming, and this is somehow - _more._ He has never had so perfect an evening as this. Of course he enjoys having her in his arms, but there is something about dressing to the nines and having a formal, delicious meal in the most romantic seclusion that makes it feel real. 

“You have wooed me wonderfully tonight, my Sansa,” he says, enjoying her blush.

“I’m happy,” she replies serenely, almost as though anything else were impossible.

“So am I,” he continues, standing, offering her his arm. It is long past sunset but the strings of fairy lights and lanterns in the lemon trees make it easy still to see, and they wander back through the gardens, talking quietly, bidding a heartfelt farewell to Irri and Moro, thanking and congratulating them on a wonderful restaurant.

The drive back to Casterly Rock is comfortably quiet, and when they get to his apartments, the door locked, jacket hung up to be pressed, shoes left in the hall, he can’t resist gathering her to him and kissing her the way he has desired all evening.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: things heat up a little.


	22. CASTERLY ROCK XII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He likes her formality, does he? Well then. Hiding a grin of her own, she replies, “you know I am, my lord.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year!
> 
> I hope you have all been safe and well over the holiday season! Thank you as always for your encouragement and support, it means a great deal. Here's some more from our smitten kittens for your enjoyment!
> 
> Here's to a happier 2021 for everyone, and until next time xx

* * *

SANSA STARK

* * *

_Casterly Rock_

She finds herself in his arms, clutching at his shoulders, his shirtsleeves, as he kisses her heatedly, manoeuvring her steadily against the wall. “As you have wooed me,” Jaime drawls in her ear, sending a pleasurable shiver down her spine, “so I will woo you.”

“Impossible man,” she giggles, lightheaded. His presence is almost too much; she can do nothing but kiss him in return, again and again, pressed up against him,arching into him, wanting him closer still and when she at last breaks away to breathe, she can feel him against her, and she - his green eyes are so dark, his hair ruffled and - still he takes her breath away - the way he is looking at her is -

She wants him. She wants everything with him. That has never been in doubt. He is her soulmate, as she is his.But beyond the waves of crashing, intoxicating desire she feels, she knows too, that she is not yet ready for anything much beyond kissing and cuddling. She does not want it to happen like this; when she has not had the chance to prepare. When they have not both of them had the opportunity to discuss it first.

“Sansa?” He asks, thumbing her cheek gently, and she leans into his tender touch.

“I - ” she shudders, feeling under her palm his heart thundering as strongly as hers. “I - kissing you is - ” she blushes violently.

His lips twitch. “Overwhelming?”

“Yes,” she replies softly, her body languid against his. “But in the best possible way,” she assures him, drifting a caress down his arm.

There is no one else she would rather be with, and that thought gives her the courage to enjoy the hazy desire in her veins, curling and unfurling in her core. It is not as though she has never been propositioned before; she has. But her romantic heart would not entertain mere flirtations; it is not a part of her character. She would have a soulmate, or nothing. In that respect, being a war correspondent had been ideal: when there was dangerous work to be done, that left little time for such things as casual sex. It had given her a welcome smokescreen for her choice; an escape from the near-constant matchmaking machinations of her mother and Robb. She’d tried, once, to justify her choice not to flash lingerie at one of the young bucks her mother had thrown her at, saying she wanted the great soulmate romance, that she would only make love to the man she was actually in love with, and who she knew loved her in return, the man she would spend the rest of her life with. Her mother had told her not to be ridiculous, that if she wanted to keep a man interested in her, she had to be agreeable and obliging. After all, Catelyn had said, did Sansa actually think that any of the men whom it would not be a social embarrassment for her to become attached to, would actually let her continue her work as a journalist? Much less consider her a part of their circle unless she was willing to partake in the hedonism characteristic of socialites? Sansa had replied rather acerbically that she would leave the drunken leaps into the lake and the drawing room orgies to Robb and his friends. She had not spoken of her hopes, of her dreams, again, not to anyone.

“Does this count as me holding you to your promise with interest, then?” He drawls, drawing her from her thoughts, and her heart does another somersault at the wickedly mischievous glint in his green eyes.

Her gaze is drawn once more to his mouth, and she remembers the masculine taste of him, and she - she wants him to be as overwhelmed by her as she is by him. “I’ve never flirted with anyone before,” she says, lifting her hand to brush his lips with her fingertips. “I could have, you know.”

His hands, warm and large, tighten pleasurably on her waist. His voice is hoarse when he replies, his eyebrow arched. “Indeed?”

“I chose not to. I chose not to kiss anyone, not to - to make love with anyone.” She leans up and nudges her nose against his, sighing when he reciprocates. “But with you… it’s different with you. I can be like this, in your arms, and I know you will not take it further, not unless we both desire it. I feel safe with you, my Jaime.”

The sudden, bright sheen in his eyes - she swallows harshly, hoping she is worthy of the way he looks at her.

“I feel safe with you too,” he answers thickly, when he has recovered his composure. “Indeed I…” he moves to cradle her cheek with his right hand, and to take her hand with his right, placing it over his heart. It pounds steadily under her palm. He swallows, and the beat quickens, and she looks up at him again, concerned. “I love you,” he says simply. “I know this is fast, but I - ” he shrugs, helplessly. “I am irrevocably, entirely in love with you.”

“Oh, my Jaime,” she smiles, “I love you too.” They are the easiest, lightest, brightest words she has ever spoken, and she laughs as he gathers her even more closely to him, and spins her around in delight, laughing with her. She lets herself slide her body against his as he lowers her to the floor again, absurdly pleased with herself when he growls under his breath, his gaze darkening.

They stand in his hallway, eyes giddy bright, both breathless, unable to take their eyes off each other. “Are you proposing to me, then?” She asks impishly, unable to resist the question. She is not disappointed by his answer.

“Trust me, my Sansa,” he drawls in his rich baritone, “when I do so, you’ll know. There are some things,” he continues languidly, kissing her forehead, her eyelids, her nose, her cheeks, before coming to hover just above her mouth, “that as a Lannister, I must do properly.”

“I know,” Sansa replies earnestly. “And I would not have you except as you are, Jaime. Your responsibilities, your duties… they come with you. I understand what they mean to you, and I will never ask you for a different life.” There is no question of not pursuing this with him; and she understands what that means. The moment she accepted his invitation to the Rock, she understood what it truly meant. A life in the public eye, a life of politics and public service. A challenging life, with high stakes, with little room for error. It is a daunting prospect, that she would be silly to deny. A life different to that of a war correspondent, certainly. But there are similarities too. Danger, stress, politics, consequences, cameras - none of those things are foreign to her.

“You are a marvel,” he says, and in his eyes she reads clearly his astonishment, his hope.

“No,” she disagrees, a private smile playing upon her lips, “I am your soulmate. There is a difference. And whatever our lives entail, whatever challenges we face, a life with you will be worth it, I know.” She kisses him, chastely.

“I love you,” he breathes, deepening the kiss, and she reciprocates willingly, determined to revel in this, tangling her fingers in his hair, shivering with delight when he dares lower his hand down her back, to her arse. “One day, I am going to kiss you here,” he continues, lowly, thumbing the silken hem of her gown, laughing unrepentantly when she squeaks into his mouth. 

“Infuriating man!” She says, when the hazy image conjured by his ardent words has dissipated enough that she is not rendered incoherent with desire. 

“I know,” he grins.

“Then,” she begins, “if you want that day to happen soon…”

“I do.” His palm is suddenly cupping instead of merely drifting, his gaze glittering rakishly. His substantial length presses against her belly, and she could not have a clearer declaration of intent had she tried, and she aches with desire for him.

“I will only let the man I am going to marry undress me. I will only let the man I am going to spend the rest of my life with touch me naked. I will only let the man who has asked me to be his wife make love to me.”

“That is the most eloquent way I’ve ever heard of saying that you intend to wait until marriage,” he smiles, thumbing her cheek. “You honour me, my lady.”

“Not quite yet do I honour you,” she can't resist pointing out, smirking. “And I do not intend to wait until marriage precisely; merely until you ask me for my hand. From everything I have heard and seen of weddings they tend to be rather strenuous affairs, and snoring is many things but seductive and romantic are adjectives excluded from that definition.”

He bursts out laughing. “I stand corrected,” he grins. “Though you may expect to hear developments on that front in the near future, my Sansa.” She can see him thinking through what she is fairly certain are the details thereof in his head, and she smiles, relieved.

She leans into him, speaking primly. “Cuddling is acceptable now, though.”

He laughs heartily again, and she revels in the richness of the sound. She's still a little dazed by him, by his charisma, by the fluid power of his frame, by his handsomeness, by the fact that somehow, he is hers. He is her soulmate. “Cuddling it is, then,” he declares, sweeping her up into his arms, carrying her against his chest, lifting her as though she weighs nothing, and her breath hitches at the demonstration, and she fights the urge to swoon. “And is this acceptable to my soulmate, though we are not yet engaged?” He drawls playfully, looking at her. “I would not wish to damage your beautiful gown.”

“Only my gown?” She replies when she has recovered from almost swallowing her own tongue.

“You are tired,” he says, solemnly. “You hide it well, but I can feel the way you have been leaning upon me, in a manner most pleasurable.” He turns his head to wink at her, before striding from the hallway through the apartments to his bedroom.

“This position has other advantages, my Prince,” she realises, equally playful. “For one thing, it means I may thank you for your chivalry like so.” She demonstrates by pressing lingering kisses to his neck, just above his collar, smirking when he inhales sharply. “It also means you have a choice of where and how to cuddle me. I seem to remember you saying you were excellent at cuddling.”

He stops, looking down at her. “Did our nap not give you enough evidence? Or the night in my bed in the Royal Flight?”

She strokes his cheek. “My dear man, demonstrations will always be welcome. But that was not what I meant: I meant that your experience must mean your imagination on the topic is refined.”

“Oh, it is my imagination you want, then, darling?” His drawl has become something languid and dark, something gravelled, and she sighs expansively, tilting her head back against his shoulder, baring her neck, and giving him quite the view. By the gods his _voice -_

“It is.”

“I’ve never met anyone who flirts the way you do,” he says, chuckling. “It’s your sweet, earnest formality, I think; I find it immensely endearing.” He sets her down on the sofa in his bedroom, taking the opportunity to press another lingering kiss to her lips. “The bathroom is yours, Sansa,” he gestures.

She thanks him, and goes to wash her face, brush her teeth and change, but the sight in the mirror arrests her movement. “How can you find me endearing when I’m so disheveled?” She demands, opening the door. She genuinely does not understand, and the sight that meets her eyes does not help in the slightest.

Jaime is shirtless, and currently in the process of unbuckling his belt. “I believe the word you’re looking for is ravished. Or well-loved, if you prefer,” he replies raffishly,before straightening, and she cannot help staring at his chest, his shoulders. “Enjoying the view?” His grin widens.

He likes her formality, does he? Well then. Hiding a grin of her own, she replies, “you know I am, my lord.” He actually blushes at that and she takes the opportunity to duck back into the bathroom and finish getting ready for bed. She has her own nightgowns and pyjamas now, and they are beautiful confections; all diaphanous silk, sensual without being too revealing. When she’d got ready for their date earlier in the evening she'd taken out an iced blue camisole and shorts silk set for the night, setting it down on a ledge in the bathroom. She will need to discuss unpacking her things properly with Jaime - but that can wait until the morning.

When she comes back into the bedroom, Jaime goes to use the ensuite in turn, and by the time he has finished she has turned down the bed and the lights for them, and she climbs in with him, settling at his side. “Good night, Jaime,” she whispers, kissing him chastely.

“Good night, my lovely teddy bear,” he replies.

“Teddy bear?” She sputters.

“You're adorable enough for it,” he rejoins.

“You’re ridiculous,” she says, giggling.

“But you love me like this.”

She pushes his hair back from his face, her fingers tracing his jaw, smiling widely at the wave of feeling engulfing her body, warm and joyful as sunlight, “I do,” she sighs. “I love you.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? Predictions?


	23. CASTERLY ROCK XIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Is that a yes, then, my love?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! 
> 
> Thank you as always for your continued enthusiasm and support! I really appreciate it! I am also having so much fun with this, and so, without further ado, I give you more ardent fluff from our two smitten kittens, with a smattering of plot. Musn't forget the plot.
> 
> Enjoy, and until next time!
> 
> xx

* * *

JAIME LANNISTER

* * *

_Casterly Rock_

“Would you come to Winterfell with me, Jaime?” Sansa asks, reappearing on the terrace with her phone in hand and a serious expression on her face. “I need to sign the guardianship documents, and I need to do it in person.”

“Of course,” he nods, gesturing for her to sit. She takes the seat opposite him at the dainty, iron-wrought breakfast table. “And you cannot bear to be parted from me?” He drawls teasingly, amused when she blushes, eyes flashing.

But her solemn reply makes his cheeks heat in turn, renders him entirely disarmed by her. “No, I cannot. I want to be with you always.”

All of a sudden he wants to do many things to her that are entirely inappropriate at the breakfast table, so he settles for lifting her hand to his lips, kissing her knuckles, her fingertips, one by one, her palm, her sensitive inner wrist, and when he looks up at her again her eyes are as liquid as the Sunset Sea, and he can only rasp hoarsely, “And I always wish to be with you, darling.”

She cups his cheek. “So you will come with me? Let me show you Winterfell. Meet my brothers, and my godfather - it’s only fair.”

“Only fair indeed,” he smirks faintly. “Yes, I’ll come with you. We’ll take the Royal Flight, we can fly out this afternoon, I’m sure. How long there will you need?”

“A day, coming back here tomorrow, if Their Graces can spare you until then.”

“They are indulgent of me, Sansa,” Jaime grins.

She smiles back. “They are. Thank you, my love. May I let my family know to expect us for dinner, then?”

“Throwing me in at the deep end,” he laughs.

“Again, no deeper than the end you threw me into,” Sansa points out, taking dainty sips of coffee, her eyes sparkling in the morning sun.

“Touché,” he admits easily, “and you acquitted yourself marvellously. I have probably already mentioned this, but my parents very much like you. More than that, they are impressed by you.”

“And their son?” Sansa continues, arching an eyebrow impishly.

“Their son is very impressed by you, as you well know.”

Her lips curl in a pleased smile, and his belly clenches with the memory of her sweet taste, her soft kiss. “Flatterer.”

“Their son finds the dress you are wearing flattering,” he answers swiftly. The _broderie_ dress in white cotton is more casual than anything she has worn before in his presence, but it is perfect for this balmy summer's day. He longs to undo with his teeth the bowtie straps on her shoulders, to fit his arm around the bodice of her waist. Perhaps he’ll plan their honeymoon somewhere hot, so she has a reason to pack it in her suitcase - but he is getting ahead of himself. “I’ll text Addam our plans, so he can take care of logistics, etc, and then, I think you should let me show you around Lannisport. We can stop off at the beach.” And frolic in the water, he cannot help but think.

He has the pleasure of seeing her raise both her eyebrows, and bite her bottom lip to suppress the grin she can’t quite hide. “What makes you think I want to go to the beach?”

“The pleasure of seeing me in swimming trunks?” He parries, laughing at her scandalised expression.

“I will throw this napkin at you, you infuriating man,” she says, mock sternly.

“Is that a yes, then, my love?”

“Only if we have a picnic lunch on the beach and you wear the red trunks with the golden lions on them. They’ll go very nicely with the fine white linen shirt.”

He sputters. The trunks had been a gag birthday gift from Addam a few years ago, and he’d gone to the beach in them. Addam and he had then, in a return to being five years old again, pushed each other into the water fully clothed. To the delight of all the gossip and lifestyle magazines, the ensuing photograph had represented, in vivid detail, just how well the linen held up to water. It had graced far too many covers and resulting in him winning some silly “hottest man of the year” award, as Sansa very well knows. But there's a sparkle in her eyes, and so he sighs exaggeratedly. “Only for you,” he relents, good-naturedly.

She stands then, holding out her hand, her mischievous expression belied by her even, gentle tones. “Come on. I’ll even let you put on my suncream for me.”

“Let’s go,” he stands hurriedly, ushering her inside so they can prepare, even as she giggles at his enthusiasm, willingly holding on to him, and he knows it: today will be a good day.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? Predictions?


	24. LANNISPORT II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I want to be your haven, your sanctuary, if you would let me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone,
> 
> I hope you are all staying safe and well. Thank you as always for your continued encouragement and enthusiasm, it really means a lot! I'm having so much fun writing this. 
> 
> Here's some more ardent fluff from our two smitten kittens - with a hint of plot - for your enjoyment. 
> 
> Until next time xx

* * *

SANSA STARK

* * *

_Lannisport_

She understands, now, why all the songs and stories say seeing somewhere through the eyes of a lover is something to be cherished. Seeing Lannisport through Jaime’s eyes, through the eyes of her soulmate, is a heady, giddy thing. They amble hand in hand down wide boulevards and across older, cobbled squares - Sansa is thankful she chose a pair of summer sandals instead of anything with even a small heel - and he points out the bakery he and Addam, as teenagers, would buy an afternoon snack from after school. Sansa agrees, tasting their lemon gelato, that the establishment’s reputation is well-founded.At the florist next door Jaime buys her an enormous bouquet of blush-coloured peonies and she laughs as he then plaits the stems together to form a crown of blooms which he sets on her head, kissing her cheek.

He keeps up with her desire to go from shop to shop, amused by trinkets and gadgets as she is, explaining proudly the history of the artisans she marvels over, and settling in to a comfortable armchair in high-end boutiques with a rakish wink as she models clothes for him. Jaime’s security team is apparently well acquainted with the Lannister proclivity for all things extravagant, and barely bat an eyelid as Jaime passes them bag after bag of purchases to put in the car boot: gifts from Sansa for the King and Queen, suits for Jaime, summer dresses for Sansa.

He is, of course, the perfect gentleman with her. Every touch is deliberate, chaste, and assured. But that does not mean she cannot feel the sensual undertones of his every gesture; the heady warmth of his palm upon the small of her back, the intimacy of his fingers tangled with hers, the intensity of his green eyes as he looks at her on this balmy, leisurely summer morning, the way he angles his body towards hers, the way his gaze lingers on the bowtie shoulder straps of her dress, and she suppresses a smile, thinking. She adds mentally to her shopping list lingerie he can unwrap, untie, unravel, though she will not buy it in his presence for the time being: for now, she prefers to keep it a surprise. A gift.

Eventually, as the shade recedes from the city streets as the sun climbs higher in the sky, her soulmate leads her to the grand boulevard on the shoreline, where the sandstone facades of the buildings give way to a grandiose staircase, and below a sloping, sandy beach. The port is further down the coast, on the south-western side of the city, where the beach gives way to a natural harbour, and where to this day the fleet is built in the arsenal next to the docks.

“We’re eating at the Lookout?” Sansa says, recognising the place from photographs, though she has never been here before. It is an ironic name for a restaurant, given its tucked away location where the beach becomes rock once more, and shaded by the massive cliffs that suddenly rise up out of the sea, where the Rock itself is built; with a view of the new glass cantilevered governmental offices bolted into the seaward cliff face below the fortress, though shielded from them in return. It is a romantic spot, only accessible either by sea, or by the beach-path Jaime has led her on, with a view of the sea and the evening sunset that can only be rivalled by the fortress of the Rock and the offices themselves. By day, the terrace of the Lookout is set with both sun loungers and alfresco dining tables, providing, for those individuals lucky enough to secure a reservation, both fantastic food and the most secluded swimming spot in the region, barring the Royal Family’s private beach.

“I know you mentioned a picnic, but well, I wanted to show you this place, I think you’ll like the food and it’s shaded enough for you not to have to instantly worry about sunburn and we can swim as well and …” Jaime trails off.

“Jaime, this is perfect, thank you,” she hastens to reassure him, misliking the look of apprehension on his face. The way he relaxes at her words makes her heart ache. “Truly,” she says, cupping his cheek. There is more to this than just a picnic, she knows, but she is not about to broach that kind of conversation in hearing distance of their security team. “Come on,” she says gently. “I want a swim before lunch and before we have to go north to Winterfell.”

He laughs, a little hoarsely, but agrees nonetheless, and they make quick work of selecting their sun loungers, shaded by a parasol as well as the cliff, and she is grateful to be able to sit down as her soulmate unbuttons his linen shirt in preparation for a swim. She strips down to her bikini, carefully folding her sundress on the lounger, and waits for the reaction of the man she loves. She is not disappointed: his jaw slackens, his eyes widen and darken, and he visibly restrains himself from reaching for her in the way she knows he would, were they alone. Her bikini is a dark crimson, a Lannister crimson, with the bow ties at her nape, back and hips that she now knows he very much favours.

“Sansa,” he breathes, and she holds out her hand to him. He takes it and leads her, almost hurriedly, to the staircase at the end of the terrace that leads down to the water. “It’s shallow here, and very safe,” he reassures her. She thanks him for his consideration and care, and then gleefully gets into the water, sighing at the refreshing sensation of the water on her skin, content to swim and float around the little cove with him.

She is staring idly up at the sky, floating, when he lifts her into his arms. She yelps in surprise but sighs and melts against him as he carries her into the calm, shoulder deep water, so they can cuddle and embrace and kiss properly whilst retaining some form of privacy.

“You are wearing my colours, darling,” he says, nuzzling at her neck. She laughs giddily, lifting her elbows to rest on his shoulders so he can hold her more closely against him.

“Do you like them on me?” She asks breathily, looking at him, enjoying the way he looks at her in return.

“You know I do,” he growls, tightening his grip on her.

“I’m glad,” she replies, brushing his hair back from his face. “And the ties?” She dares, biting back a whimper at the feeling of his hands suddenly flexing on her hips at her words. She brushes her nose against his. “Do you like them too, my lord?”

“Very much,” he swallows convulsively. And then his expression sharpens to something more controlled, and his hands move slowly, deliberately, from her hips to her bottom, encouraging her to wrap her legs around his waist, giving her ample time and space to move away if she so desires. She does not so desire, and instead does as he encourages, fascinated by the consuming, ardent gaze he directs at her. She can feel him against her, and clings to his shoulders, his back, and hides her face in his neck, willing her cheeks to cool, dizzy at the scent of him, the feel and warmth of him.

“Love you,” she mumbles into his skin, revelling in the rumbling chuckle he answers with. He shifts his grip, wrapping one arm around her waist, and lifting the other to her hair, smoothing it, and she sighs, blissfully. His fingers comb her hair, his hand coming to rest upon her nape and she stutters out his name, clinging more tightly to him, her breath hitching.

“Sansa?” He says quietly. “Is this too much?”

She trembles, not entirely knowing how to - too much? Yes. Not enough? Also yes. “I want your hands in my hair, my lord,” she whispers. “Holding me.” So she cannot look away from him. Her cheeks flame.

“Like so?” He says, coming to cradle her head with his hand, long fingers massaging her scalp, tangling in the strands of her hair, his thumb brushing behind her ear.

“Yes,” she stutters, trying not to swoon. Her heart is pounding, and she drags a breath into her lungs. This is like nothing she has ever felt. “I - I want to kiss you,” she hears herself say.

“Please do,” he drawls, and the sound is so familiar, so infuriatingly impossibly irresistibly - that she kisses him before he can tease her further with that playful arrogance she has come to realise is one of her favourite things about him, one of the things she finds so compelling and charming about him. He has only to look at her with that infuriating, raffish light in his eyes, only has to drawl a single word and she melts for him - and the insufferable man knows it too, she thinks, growling into the kiss, wanting him to be as affected by her as she is by him -

A wave crashes over their head, breaking the kiss, and they come up sputtering and laughing, mutually deciding to make their way back up to the terrace. When he gestures for her to take the stairs first, she turns to look at him, unimpressed by his professed innocence. “You just want to look at me,” she says slyly, “so you can calculate how best to untie my clothing with your teeth.” She takes advantage of his momentary slack-jawed shock to scamper up the stairs, giggling.

He catches up to her quickly enough, sliding an arm around her waist, growling into her ear, “You've had your fun, lovely wolf. Now it’s my turn. A Lannister always pays his debts.” She burns with curiosity and desire as he leads her back to their loungers, snatches up one of the towels, dries himself quickly, before turning back to her, his hair ruffled and sticking up so he looks for all the world like a disgruntled kitten, and she giggles helplessly at him. “Lie down on your stomach,” he says evenly, gesturing to her lounger, and she does so, still giggling, eagerly watching to see what he plans to do.

She shivers when she sees he’s picked up the bottle of suncream. Gods, the thought of his hands on her like that - she settles, stretching herself out, pressing her cheek against the towel, and closes her eyes. He brushes her hair off her back, fingering and stroking at the ties of her bikini top, and her breath hitches. He laughs lowly, before leaning over her to whisper in her ear, “Not yet, darling.” And then he moves away, and there is nothing for a moment that feels like an eternity, so much so that she jolts when she feels once again his hands upon her skin. He must have warmed the cream in his hands first, she thinks idly, biting back a moan, as he begins with her shoulders. His hands are skilled, large and warm and strong, as he massages her back, slowly, making sure he doesn’t miss anywhere, and she gives herself over to the sensation. She shudders with delight as he brushes the sensitive skin of her ribcage underneath her arms towards her breasts, and he stills, holding his hands there, and she knows he is cataloguing everything he is learning about her, about her body, just as she is taking careful note of his own preferences.

* * *

His ministrations, careful, tender, teasing, leave her a dazed, happy, sleepy, melted puddle, and he has to exert himself to rouse her again so they can cover up their swimsuits and trunks with proper clothes, so they can have a late lunch. Determinedly, she rubs the languid summer air from her eyes, and assembles enough brain function to put on her sandals again. She realises that, really, he only needed to put suncream on her upper back and shoulders instead of the whole thing, seeing as her dress does cover the majority of her back, but she enjoyed the experience so much that she doesn't say anything except to tease him that he is spoiling her, that she will come to expect such things all the time if he is not careful.

“I enjoyed that as much as you, my Sansa,” he replies earnestly. “And - your pleasure is my own.” His voice drops to that leisurely velvet gravel. “In all things.”

She has to at least attempt to control the desire to kiss him all the time, does she not? Especially when he says such things. “What are your favourite things on the menu?” She redirects the conversation to something lighter as the maitre d’ leads them to their table overlooking the water.

He blinks, understanding the inference behind her words. “You would let me order for both of us?”

“I trust you,” she replies simply. “I trust your taste, and I trust your decision-making.” She is also endlessly curious about him; and she wants to know what he would order here when he had the choice. There is some edge to his countenance, some old wound, something jagged and painful. “It is not a case of me _letting_ you; Jaime,” she continues softly. “I want you to be who you are, and I know that part of your character is your gallantry. Besides,” she blushes. “I like seeing you in command, at ease with your environment. In truth I - I find it very attractive. And I - I like that you know me well enough to choose something I will like. It shows that you pay attention to me. I find that very attractive also.” 

“My Sansa,” he chokes, grasping her hand on the table, compulsively lifting it to his lips. “I love, I love, I love you.” He pauses, before squaring his shoulders. “Before - with - ”

“With your ex-girlfriend?” Sansa surmises gently.

“Yes, I - nothing I ever chose was good enough for her. Even though I paid attention.She would send back meals in restaurants and gifts - just to be cruel. The more time I spent trying to find the perfect thing the more delight she took in - well - ” he clenches his fists, and her heart breaks for him, even as she feels that overwhelming fury again - “And that was only in public.” He cuts himself off abruptly, his ears flushing.

She blinks away tears, and reaches for his hand. “I want to hide you from the world,” she snarls, and his gaze snaps to hers, bewildered. "I want to take you in my arms and never let you go,” she continues fiercely, quietly. "I want to be your haven, your sanctuary, if you would let me.”

“With you I am myself,” he says eventually, more serious and solemn than she has ever known him to be. “I cannot conceive of any greater, more precious sanctuary than that. Thank you, my lovely Sansa.” He lifts her hand to his lips and presses a searing kiss to her palm.

They dine well indeed: freshly caught and seared scallops with a lemon butter sauce; grilled lobster Thermidor served with fresh baguettes still hot from the oven and sautéed greens; and gelato to finish: lemon-almond for Sansa, and pistachio for Jaime.

He could not have chosen better, and Sansa tells him so after they have left, when they are walking back along the beach, moved at the resulting expression on his face. He draws her to him, and in the full view of the entire city of Lannisport, kisses her. 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? Predictions?


	25. CASTERLY ROCK XIV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You are very much my son,” The King’s mouth twitches.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone!
> 
> Welcome to the next instalment, I really hope you all enjoy this! Thank you as always for your support and encouragement, it really means a lot. 
> 
> Without further ado, I give you Tywin and Jaime. 
> 
> Enjoy, and until next time xx

* * *

JAIME LANNISTER

* * *

_Casterly Rock_

As he and Sansa take their leave of the King and Queen, his father motions him into his study, leaving the two women laughing in the drawing room. Once the door is closed, his father gestures at the armchairs, and Jaime sits down, leaning back into the leather.

“I’ve had word from the jewellers,” Tywin Lannister begins, sitting in turn. “By the time you return from Winterfell the whole parure should be ready; I requested they expedite the commission.”

“Thank you, Father,” Jaime swallows. “I have been thinking how I should…”

“Propose?” His father huffs out a laugh. “Of course you have.”

“It - it must be perfect. She deserves nothing less, and I am a Lannister.” Jaime fights the urge to wipe his clammy palms.

“It must be _heartfelt_ , that is the most important thing. Heartfelt, and private. You do not want photographs or details leaking.”

“I have no wish to accidentally ruin it or - ”

“You will not. I know you will not.”

Jaime finds solace in the steady, sharp way his father is looking at him, at the utter confidence in the King’s words. 

“I would have the use of the Garden Ballroom, when we return,” Jaime says, gathering his courage, watching his father carefully. The more he’s been thinking - the more he - he knows he very much enjoys dancing with Sansa. He enjoys dancing in general, and finds it impossible to be anything but happy in a ballroom, or even waltzing around in his study by himself. It is something he feels at ease doing, and will be a way of managing his nerves about such a momentous occasion. His soulmate is also a skilled dancer - and what could be more romantic than whirling around in an empty ballroom, with faint strains of music as an accompaniment?

“You are very much my son,” The King’s mouth twitches.

“I thought you proposed to Mama in the gardens?” Jaime asks, swallowing past the sudden emotion welling in his throat at his father’s words.

“I did,” his father drawls. “I neglected to mention that we were only in the gardens because we snuck away from the ball taking place at the time. There were rumours flying amongst the guests that I was going to propose to your mother that night, and they all obviously wanted to try and catch a glimpse of me doing it. We had, after all, had a very public first meeting in the very same ballroom. So attempting to hide in my own gardens was my only option. I eventually managed to find somewhere private enough. We danced, and then I knelt and asked for your mother's hand.” His smirk widens, and Jaime knows his mother is the only person for whom Tywin Lannister has ever knelt. “And then she and I came back into the ballroom and announced the engagement. I had people asking me for weeks how I'd managed it.”

Jaime laughs. How very like his father to have thus outwitted his guests. “And you would like that little fact to remain un-broadcast.”

“I would.” His father’s countenance shifts to something softer. “Continue the tradition, Jaime. I think it a fine one.”

Jaime snorts. “You revived it.”

“Of course. There’s this little thing called good taste, Jaime. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?” The King raises an eyebrow in sardonic amusement.

“Thank you, Father,” Jaime laughs, before sobering. “And thank you for your support of me, of her, of the two of us together.”

“Your mother and I could do no less,” Tywin Lannister replies evenly. “There was something in your voice in that phone call, the first time you mentioned her, and I knew. I fell in love with Joanna in a single glance from the other side of a very crowded ballroom. We had not even been introduced, but I walked up to her, bowed, offered my hand for a dance, and the rest, as they say, is history.”

“Did you feel it too? That first touch of the hand, and the world irrevocably altering?” Jaime asks.

His father’s eyes flash, and his reply is simple. “Yes.”

Jaime inhales, more comforted than he expected by the notion. “For so long,” he stumbles, “I thought - after - that I’d definitively messed up my chance at- at _all of it_ that I could not imagine a future in which I was worthy of having the greatest love, of having a soulmate. And so to know - to know that I am worthy after all - I can scarcely believe it.”

“Believe it, my son. Believe it. None of that mess was your fault, Jaime. You were preyed upon, hunted, targeted. And I have given instruction for the NDA to be tightened once more; I expect confirmation this evening at the latest.” His father speaks with all the authority of his position; entirely implacable. Tywin Lannister speaks and the world forms in the image of the words, it has been thus for as long as Jaime can remember, and it reassures him greatly.

“Thank you,” Jaime rasps, bowing his head. “Your faith in me will not be misplaced.”

“I know it is not.” The King nods solemnly in response, and always that even, steady look upon his face.

“Oh, and speaking of photographs… I imagine the press will have a field day - I kissed the Lady Sansa at the beach,” Jaime says nonchalantly.

“I know. Your mother has already ordered a copy printed and framed. It’s a rather lovely photograph, after all. She thought, and I agreed, that the two of you might like a memento of you wearing those ridiculous swimming trunks,” his father continues dryly.

“Father!” Jaime sputters.

“I shall take great pleasure in describing your scandalised expression to your mother.”

Jaime softens. “If it will make Mama happy, how can I possibly protest?”

“Does that mean we can expect more such photographs? You’ll have to notify me - I expect I shall have to buy my wife a photo album, if my son persists.”

Jaime groans half-heartedly. “I walked straight into that, didn’t I?”

His father the King gives a short, dry huff of amusement. “You did indeed. I may no longer be a young man, but well do I remember what it was to proudly revel in what I felt.” He pauses, before continuing more seriously. “It is good to see you so expressive, so at ease. It gladdens both your parents’ hearts.”

Jaime blinks away the sudden pricking behind his eyes, and says, nonchalantly,“Then buy Mama the photo album, Father. Sansa and I will endeavour to fill it.”

Tywin Lannister snorts. “You really are very much my son, though you have your mother's cheerfulness. I daresay the latter will stand you in good stead at Winterfell.” And then his father farewells him as he always has, with the words _go with the blessing of your father and your King, for the quicker you go, the more rapid your return._

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Sansa and Jaime on the flight to Winterfell.

**Author's Note:**

> thoughts? predictions?


End file.
